sometimes, it's morning. and i've forgotten to brush my hair again. or how to tie my shoes or what my name sounds like. and that i don't believe in anything anymore. and that's when i realize that i'm losing little pieces of myself to you.
and the tip of my tongue is stained with the taste of stale paint from the renovating you've done with my mind. and for the next four hundred and seventy three and a half hours i'll be staring at the ceiling. since i'm waiting for your flavor to fade. or maybe i'm just waiting for you to come back to me. since my fingertips are losing their feeling. and the strands of my hairs are splitting. i'm aging in reverse. or fast forward. and the next time you see me, i'll be older than i've ever been before. so press play. since i'm sick of being stuck on pause.
and some days, when i'm waiting for the earth to move again, i count every one of my eyelashes and measure the distance it would take for them to fall so i can calculate all the wishes i'm missing. a