My 5:45s are weirdly nostalgic about something I cannot put a pin on. They're sad and happy at the same time, in the same proportion. But sometimes they're empty and hollow with orange blue skies.
My 5:45s are hard to type out and harder to say out in words. But they knock on my ribs every evening and rustle much like the leaves outside my window.
My 5:45s remind me that some things and some people will leave, no matter how much you wish otherwise.
My 5:45s smell like you. And sometimes, they even echo your voice. They hold my hands and curl their fingers in to mine. They carry the warmth of sleeping beside you, a habit I cannot ever shake off.
My 5:45s are mostly with you.
Distant. But they're always you.
My 5:45s are hard to type out and harder to say out in words. But they knock on my ribs every evening and rustle much like the leaves outside my window.
My 5:45s remind me that some things and some people will leave, no matter how much you wish otherwise.
My 5:45s smell like you. And sometimes, they even echo your voice. They hold my hands and curl their fingers in to mine. They carry the warmth of sleeping beside you, a habit I cannot ever shake off.
My 5:45s are mostly with you.
Distant. But they're always you.
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