boobs.

What a mystery...
How has it gone on this long?
Months?
A year?
I talk it over
and I think it over
and still, there's no conclusion.
There's not really any evidence one way
or another...
And it really shouldn't concern me
I'll probably never need to know,
but I just want to...
And the answer is kind of in front of me
but not really...
Because I just can't ask the right questions.
I get hints
that could be humour
Fuck.

nothing.

I look to you and I see nothing.
I see nothing on the surface, and less within.
I close my eyes, and nothing of you calls me.
Just... you're just... someone else.
Someone I'd pass on the street,
someone I'd see in a hallway at school.
Faded on the inside, dull on the out.
Trudging through a life that seems leased and little else.
No manual, no interest... no...
No ambition.
Where is it?
You can't tell me, it doesn't matter anyhow.
The lines across your face suggest age, and knowledge,
but is that just another lie?
Is it?
Is it something you tell people about,
something you wish was true?
I'm not exactly sure I want to know, one way or another, anymore.
You're not worthless, but at the same time
you just don't seem to do anything for me.
I don't see you in another 10 years.
I can't quite find your contribution to it all
and that's a little disturbing.
It is, it really is.

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