Mrs. GH's 2nd Period AP Lit Class

One time we played hide and seek with closed eyes, some flesh, fingertips, and adorational grins. It was all the metaphorical hype one could conjure, and all the happiness one could ever want, drawing parallels to childhood memories recounted by a drip of apple juice on the tongue and an animal cracker for solace on a rainy day. But now you've got me writing very lengthy sentences about memories of us which try to compact an insurmountable quantity of emotion into a fairly articulate expression of distress. I mean, I hate to say it, but your absence makes depressing acoustic guitar melodies my only friends when I sit alone in isolation from the world (or lackthereof.) I feel like a mixture of Elliott Smith, Deathcab for Cutie, Keith Urban, all surmounted into one person, and lacking all that talent. Alright, toss Common into that mix, because there needs to be some smattering of blackness for that mass of person--I wouldn't want to lose my inherent tan.

Anyhow, now isn't joking time. Now is mourning time. Mourning for our love's cadaver, corroded deep in the throes of Cupid's morgue for relationships like ours. So what will it be? Cremation or a burial? I think my construction of this piece, though, shows we've already been cremated, as I am an ash.

I am an ash.

And I'm touching the nose of this reader, but I'm sure it doesn't tickle.*

Whoa. Total emo moment all, sorry.

To steal a formatting note from Rob Muilenburg and the short empire that was his blog:

This post was filled with a ridiculous amount of unneeded agony.

Alexander -X- Catchings I