Gravity.
It could be one of those pre-fabricated sentiments,
focus group-tested, good on paper, Freudian naïvité - that sort of thing.
A kitschy cry in the dark.
It could be shame; simple and irreproachable guilt.
Does this define me? What does that make me?
it wouldn't be the first time.
Oh, and it could be boredom,
foolish fantasies, fictitious flirtation and fear of..
Fear- isn't it always fear?
But what if it's nothing short of a poem?
Entire of itself.
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