More alone than I can remember ever being.

I'm an empty milk crate, and you're the changing weather. The air is so thick that I keep mistaking it for tangible, and try to shake out sheets of humidity and end up looking foolish. I hate trust. My thoughts are sinking, while my disposition has fully capsized in it. You've got an advantage in that you know the street names better than me. How New York is so much closer to you than to myself. How I don't yet know many more. I'm stupid for falling for a transient and expecting reciprocation. Right now i'm wordering why I would bother with attempting metaphor, when it's much more than I was given. I guess I figured I could at least save face, if not myself. Not all bodies are so deciduous. Lay some books in me.