I come to recall the love we share

"It's complicated." she mutters

What a cliche. To call yourself a walking cliche is cliched by this point.

One never forgets the scowls that parallel the callous fingertips That used to stroke ones temples wearily alongside the buzz Of an overheated television screen

Dactylography and petty arguments are what we comprised

It means so much

I did not lie. You are still and forever, soft pretty and lurid.

You speak motherese and it endears most yet remains a primary Cause for one's desire to remain abstract

It is not a choice