as i wipe my running nose down the length of my forearm i begin to recollect the past. the past of which i may never run away from. the snot has now crusted to my skin and i rub it off with haste. tissues, not to be found when in need but to be wasted on minor bogies. i have gone over the things i would love to say and yet i find it is not to be said or i would have said them back when it counted. i stare at memories of you and i but they have all become faded and smudged. smudged like snot along my arm. i am sorry i did not have a tissue when you needed it most.
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People will always be tempted to wipe their feet,
On anything with 'welcome' written on it.