Maybe its our age, that quarter life crisis.
This abundance of ambition but lack of unwavering direction
Mere ability to see the future but not grasp those dreams into reality
The glamorous lives of where we would love to be.
Whatever the underlying method,
It’s our interactions that are mess orientated
Until someone comes along and calms the storm,
until very soon after they resurface from the carnage without looking back
Charming but never fully mine, or yours.
How is it that we can’t move on from bland personality driven games.
You are no different
But I fall, repeatedly,
I wait, disappointedly
in your bed, again.
and just coming, full circle, back to you and your kind.