9:30 pm

He read it at 9:30 PM. It's currently 9:42 PM and he hasn't even began to type. Read 9:30 PM. Read 9:30 PM. Read 9:30 PM. It replays in my head over and over. I almost want to believe it's a band I just discovered or a catchy song they've played on the radio way too many times to even be enjoyable anymore. It goes through my head so many times I wish it was merely a song that was stuck in my head. It's 9:45 PM, and nothing has happened. Usually I get chaotic because something did happen. I've never been upset because of the lack of anything happening. Nothing has happened. It's 9:47 PM and I'm crying because of nothing, but for something. I'm crying for 9:30 PM. If I was stuck in 9:30 PM, I would be okay. If it was possible to be stuck in the exact moment of catastrophe, 9:30 PM, I would be okay. If I didnt have 18 minutes to think about what has or hasnt happened, I would be okay. But it is 9:49 PM and I'm not okay because he read it at 9:30 PM.

This poem is about: 
Me
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