sinking and sugary
too much, the wrong time, the wrong ratios
and nobody is listening
nobody is ever listening. not even you.
not even me.
things get so cold. so cold nothing could ever fill that cold with enough
not even you.
so keep putting on layers. frosting. glazes. ganache and ice.
the more layers the more distance, not really a cushion but some kind of barricade, blurred up down and over so that we merely think we see from here what's there
impossible.
it's all so sweet. so sickening that no toothpaste can reconcile my future after this.
not even me.
it's waiting. that elusive unknown. and you're waiting too.
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