Another failed summer,
lying on my stomach in my
warm, musty room
with my ceiling fan
spraying dust on me.
My days are spent working,
a place with memories of you.
My nights are spent alone,
my only company are
thoughts of what our future holds.
Some random song is playing
during my sadness,
and I know for the rest of my life,
the connotations the song will hold.
I'll write a fiction story
to take my mind off of you,
but eventually it comes to an end,
and I will get the guts to call you,
and we may or may not talk long,
and I will probably ask you out,
and you will probably say okay,
and probably cancel at the last minute,
breaking the already shattered glass
of this see-through window called my heart.
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