April
April, the month, is gone. So much can happen in April.
I had said April is the packing month, and May is the leaving month. But how can I, simply leave, all these, pretty and dear, behind. I turn cold on the thought of it.
We are different people, our minds on different things in life. We are verses that don't rhythm. I always wonder what it is to keep us apart yet unsevered. There must be something, but is the thing strong enough to keep us there?
I need to go back to the coma of sleep, to forget.
I had said April is the packing month, and May is the leaving month. But how can I, simply leave, all these, pretty and dear, behind. I turn cold on the thought of it.
We are different people, our minds on different things in life. We are verses that don't rhythm. I always wonder what it is to keep us apart yet unsevered. There must be something, but is the thing strong enough to keep us there?
I need to go back to the coma of sleep, to forget.
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