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I wish it was a temporary number. At least there would be an excuse why there was no chance for a reply. Sometimes, when the television is off and I'm laying in my bed with nothing but the street light beaming into the room on me, I cannot think. There's always a sweet fragrance lingering over me like cozy wool sheets. My head gets too foggy to think. There's always a taste that is better than cocaine that I'm addicted to, the one I used to bite into when playing rough. Then all I want to do is think of anything else, but I'm screaming in my heart saying, "don't take me back there to those memories." There's always this parched desire of mine that no matter how many glasses I guzzle down, I cannot replace. It is frightening to me. I've never felt this way before. I call cliche on emotions, but these are so far different! I have to place my hands over my eyes just to retain some dignity. So, answer your damn text because all I can think about is how much I miss you. - Fiore Blu