Leaves are still crunchy under bare feet after they have fallen and died.
So what matters, do I, do you?
You should still check for cobwebs and decide which to keep or sweep.
I still want to own you and cannot reconcile that fact with other ones.
Ten minutes of dancing is still about one thousand steps.
It’s a mess I digress…
Foam although partially manufactured is still a way to tell that soap is working.
Does it really matter to you, or me?
You should still text me no matter what whenever I cross your weary mind.
I still want to write about being near you more than I actually want intimacy.
The value of ten minutes of living is hard to calculate in the grand scheme of existence.
I miss you, I guess…