Not Good With Titles

by Krizabel Pastrana

Plane, time machine, to me they’re the same.
Some faces, some things, some places
Can take you back.
Your call brings me back to the present,
Where we’re currently acting like the past, never happened.

We discuss music, school, writing
We love to talk about how we tore each other apart
Suddenly, I’m back in a dimension
Where I constantly have to mention
That it’s not hard to be yourself.

You counter that argument, like you always do
I learned from my trips to the future
That I don’t like to argue.

When do you leave again? Not soon enough.
So much for working things out,
Tears, a frown, a pout
You haven’t changed at all,
Too bad, I have.

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