I fucked up. I am so sorry. My night arrived. I am as if hitting a brother. Man, I am so so sorry. Sorry, I am so so sorry. If a pillow were anything as your kindness is. I owe you. I deserted, not trusted anymore, unwarranted. But gladly, you, huddled. And you were anything, as if weak, accepted and pressed into knees. If attempts were anything appreciated. Once Iʼm silent: the text, as if it hadnʼt been earned. With this does apology matter anything. Iʼll send you the text. How can I apologize a story undone. Does it matter. How can it be re-trimmed, short of teeth, blunt nails, hurt. I want to live. My trimmed heart is always punctual and soft. It so rarely hurts, always there waiting on anything but itself, pressuring me to always be so much time. Iʼll always be there when you need this stain inside me, man. I appreciate some dead me asking you this. In so much time and distance, silence is a loud naming of silence, a shout screaming yes aloud, a hot screaming yes, you monster. I say yes, you monster.