Do not worry for me, love.
I am nestled in the crook of someone else's young arms.
I have found ways to live with the parts of me you wanted to raze.
Do not worry for me.
For I am preoccupied with frivolity...
To be succinct, but with no discernible precisosity:
Adolescence: Egos of paper mache
Cars: Exhaustion and death
Sundry red: Parted lips, ripe fruits, unmentionables...
Red, you exhaust me.
Like I exhausted you?
Do not worry for me, love.
I am so busy, oh so busy, with salting soups and sidewalks.
I pay my bills, love, I do.
Mostly pay the majority of my bills.
Do not worry for me.
I am no longer the ever delicate nod to early senescence.
No, not entangled with creases on a page, rather part of script,
that I write,
line by line.
Do not worry for me, love;
I no longer worry for you.
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