I'll be angry.
I'll want something different.
Discontent.
I'll lose sleep,
and the ability to accept.
At this moment I don't know a higher power than acceptance.
Any mindless ramble I take you on could all be explained,
and if that wasn't true, you could accept it to be your truth.
What other perception matters but your own?
I'll find all the truth in lies.
I'll lie to find the truth.
I'll lay here telling myself anything acceptable,
so I know trying not to love you is possible.
I'll predict our future and realize the lack of one we'll have.
I'll shut my eyes, clutch onto my pillow
whisper my wish that it'd be you instead
to fall asleep and forget all again.
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