They ask me about my plans in a couple months and my mind springs to you.
It always goes straight to you.
Even as your name claws at my neck to escape, fantasizing about the future of us is the one thing I don't say.
As much as I'd love you to stay in my life:
To be a piece of my past, present, and possibly future; something nags at me that that won't be the case.
So I don't speak your name in my future endeavors,
Even though the letters write themselves all over my body giving my thoughts away.
I tell myself,
"This will be easier when you're gone."
That it'll be easier to tell only myself,
"The reason you didn't come was because you didn't infinitively love me."

You're as permanent as a cool summer breeze
and it already feels as if the temperature is rising.