Dots I could never dash

You know what I miss? Conversations that don't make sense..hour-long conversations that don't make sense. Hour-long conversations that don't have to make sense to anybody else, simply because they've got splashes of our little world in pink, green and red red red light red, all over the place..(but mostly because we don't want them to.) Nothing in the romantic sense. Nothing in any sense whatsoever. So perhaps I miss being sugarhigh and babbling about the kiss the wind refused to give, or the way the third chime of the clock feels like a spoonful of cinnamon freefalling into your gut. I don't see what's keeping me from reaching into that ol' cookie jar..aside from that understandably common teenage drive to look anorexic, of course. I don't even like stick-skinny girls; I just have an odd thing for bones portruding in the right place..elbows, hip bones, wrists, ankles..to a certain extent. Don't expect me to love you if I can break you in half.