Words have not escaped my fingers in a while. As if they have left me all alone, altogether. It might be due to my days being such a bore though, lumped together into a forgotten bulge. My days are lumpy; like how oatmeal or mashed potatoes are highly frowned upon when they’re lumpy. Those are my everyday…lumps, where they shouldn't be, but are there because I never took the time to stir them out.
My fingers ache, struggling to type this for it seems there is no space here. So I will force them to write me something beautiful. Although I do know that such a sweet symmetry that, with every read, would instantly create a plummeting love cannot be real in this world. I need them to lie. And if being lied to would make me make sense of it all, then what harm is there in a lie?