Your campus, Your story
Yes, there is a reason we only speak when I’m drunk
It’s because you scare me more than Armageddon.
Not in the way of one of those predictable horror movies,
More in the way that at any moment your words alone could drop me like a half full glass of red wine.
Shattering like a misplaced porcelain doll.
The explosion of tiny glass shards are nothing to the stained red walls and carpet,
At least not to the naked eye.
But days, weeks or even months later, when all the mess is cleaned,
And many more bottles have been drank,
And many more glasses have been dropped.
Will eventually come a night, when I do hear your voice again.
And step down firmly into the carpet only to feel the prick of a tiny glass-shard penetrating my heel.
And quite frankly when that happens,
I would much rather have a buzz.
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