After a little observance

I’ve noticed that I am 

just too tired of 

thinking about you to 

formulate delicate phrases, 

to piece together intricate 

words, to pour my heart into 

a pen and use the red ink 

to bear my soul. No.

 I am just too tired.

My eyes sting with

preemptive pain just 

waiting for the tears to get 

caught in my throat, and my 

hands shake too much to 

reach for the phone, 

so my dear, don’t expect me 

to call. I’m just too tired. 


Maybe you’d do me a favour 

and just let me sleep. 

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