I didn't wake up in time to write down what simile or metaphor made you say "Aaron, we should date or something." It was a prose poem morphing in and out of lyricism, some hard syllables with soft meaning.
I would always read you my poems that meant something to me because we are friends, but they would be awkwardly introverted, so you would say "Aaron, you really don't have to do this." For once, I was not just angsty or evasively sarcastic. I was somewhere in between - honest, and you liked it.
My writing was a painting, like one of yours
Even when you paint butterflies, they rip apart
my subcontious and nest there
And it's the second dream like this where the needles in my head tap tapping in the dark happen to strike some rich beautiful illusion. How does a fake song exist like this? Maybe two entirely separate sound waves happen to line up forming some amorous overtones. And I can't get it out of my head. So I'm sorry for these mistakes my mind makes. And I'm sorry for another awkward poem.