because a leaf depends on falling

just as I'm breaking it down

because so much depends on who we feel that we are
a bittersweet love for sickness
internal dialogue advocating for fuck-ups
puts down progress
like 'Holy Shit i'm eighteen'
and almost as old as we've ever expected ourselves to get
reaching my last habitual second
connected to a cross reference
pre-purchased souvenirs manifest against this minor inconvenience
let me stay distracted till moss grows over a dormitory
that read E.E. cummings [l(a] , but with instant meaning
that may be
until unnecessary pontification
and please, I insist.

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