You’re always around but you’re never here

I had a few lines floating around in my head the other night and I decided to write them down in my handy-dandy notebook. It was kinda like a draft of a poem. But in the end I was too lazy to tie them all together, like what Yeats said: “”A line will take us hours maybe;/Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,/Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.” Anyway I think there’s something sad about them only existing in this form, as incomplete, scattered thoughts.

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