I’m two pills in and I’ve not slept yet. I’m two feet in and my temperature isn’t poetic. I’m two hands in and my wrinkles are bloody cracks surrounded near your chest. I’m two souls away from my next heartbreak. I’m two eyes from my next surprise. I’m two fingers pointing at the sun and saying one wasn’t enough to point out the truth of daybreak. I’m two poems away from figuring out this poetry. I’m two hearts away from feeling everything. I’m two eons away from tasting her and I’ve been searching the ocean for signs of ink, but we’re in too deep to the music and I’ve been thinking if octopuses really released ink or if they are actually poets bleeding their hearts out just like me… I’ve been thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking and I’m finally repeating myself enough to believe it. I’m kinda screwed and it only took two conversations to realize how messed up my emotions are. I’m two days away from writing another story about you and you’re probably two oceans away, but my darling, aren’t we a bit fucked?