I want to try running myself across these roads like the head of an eraser.

Maybe the further I go, the harder I press my feet into the concrete, the faster I’ll erode this melancholy.

Maybe if I split myself from this place I’ll manage a separate head space. But the cognitive dissonance squeezes out my pores and coats my brow.

I’m stuck on you with my hands and tongue tied. 135 miles away with only my worthless words to build a bridge.

I wish I could read your mind.

I wish I could speak mine.

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