In between

Melancholia. I’m still blooming. 

Toss the bad habits into the garbage.

I don’t fit in the wastebasket. 

I’m making no sense.

I make perfect sense. 

Everything is wet. 

My eyes no longer collect moisture themselves but Everything else is a puddle. 

There I go, making absolutely no sense. 

It doesn’t have to.

Right?

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