For a long time I've framed myself the distancing type. I always leave, I keep my feelings to myself left to rot deep down somewhere inside where they turn to bitterness and a longing for fantasies that may never be.
(more) Turns out I planted all that evidence myself, and upon searching you'd find me guilty of all charges. The truth is just trapped. Trapped somewhere where it all gets distorted and fuzzy into twisted images that come out as a vague representation of the life I'd prefer to leave.
Truth is you never know how much you enjoyed something until you can't have it anymore. Truth is I can't count the consequences of my planted evidence on one hand anymore. Truth is that some distances become insurmountable, no matter how many miles you hike up into the mountains to try and hide from them.
I once wrote that promises to myself come a dime a dozen, and each one has turned into cigar-leaden ash in my mouth. As I sat smoking and listening to the bittersweet playlist that Spotify has availed me, the world suddenly felt empty. The pink-bellied clouds crossing the Colorado sunset hung lazy over some vast emptiness that I worry has taken too much root.
I've framed myself for crimes I can never repent. (less)