May 2nd;

My words spill out like paint on canvas and I can’t quite grasp all the things I need to say. All the rhythm runs through me like electricity, and everyone I touch feels the beat. I can never love anyone and be loved at the same time, I suppose curiosity tends to work this way. You asked me if I liked you, and I just shook my head. Smoke blew from your lips, and your kisses tasted like cigarettes and the dew of early mornings. Our words still fade with the wind, each lie a whisper as it tickles the trees. I painted you a picture with my words and yet I go unheard.

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