If I Had A History

idk

Post-evening is the perfect time to find me.
With slight mischief, I look predominantly business- and you immediately notice these gel-slicked, roughly-combed locks. That inevitable gravitation pulls you to the sculpture and shadows of my reserved brow, which cradle my one-in-a-million, faithful old puppy-dog eyes. They capture you. When I finally let you go - you will think of me for days. You'll write this about me.
I could help you dream.
You know exactly
how I could help you, 
And you know exactly
how I could destroy you. 

You'd choose me, 
over anyone else, 
because whether or not 
the weather is right:

I'm your perfect storm. 

I, myself, me-
curator of everything you think
is inevitable in life, 
"honestly, wish you nothing but the best."

I might be gone by October, 
I might be gone in six years,
but my God, have you insolence
to remember what really happened. 
I do not care. 


Post-Genre is a good time to find me. Once upon a time, I purposely wanted to fall in love with the wrong person. It became so absolutely decimating that I could never, in my chaotic mind, look away from it. I wanted to see how long I could survive every fight in the ring, and clamber out again whether I won or lost- with open arms and a faithful, forgiving heart-
but the supernova chose to become a black hole.