Call

Water bottle. Reach down.
But your fingers on it.

My my, rounding now..
Such a crazy bend.

And the water needs to soak into me,
Like pasts purging...
But some things
Will always have a life of their own.
And I guess that's the Thrown;
Where we get thrown.

The writer in me, could eat it all up..
The material they always give.
Splurge. Purge.
Create a refuge.

He..
Makes me feel that I could never create one
Large enough for him; equipped.
And while the drop In my eyes hangs low to believe him-
Looking at the ground now..
Kicking rocks...
My heart is a wind that strikes fierce and burns...
And she says..."go now"...

But...

Well...I don't know.
My timing normally is right on.
Maybe it's all meant to be, that's why.
Not my timing that's off at all?

Or perhaps.

Or perhaps.