Untitled Prose 2

Sometimes I feel doomed alone, like the couch-thinker hopeful, curled with her crutch. She loves her, and she needs her. She clings to her and follows her to sleep. Summer consoler. I have no substitute, and soon you will join me. You dress yearning, wanting, aching, hoping, fearing. I have the same routine, dreamer. It just won't happen.