Tolerance

we're bored.
we can only tolerate so much.
we sit, waiting, for what? look at him, look at me. bored.
tired of waiting. sitting still has never been so exhausting.

but maybe the real limit's placed on the amount of excitement we can handle.
something happens: you see his truck a few houses down,
you see a pointless text from her on your phone,
the stupid crap that gives you butterflies and plasters a shit-eating grin on your face for a week.

because when that happens -- something so stupid and so small -- something to keep you going, you have to wonder: what would i be doing right now without this? what would be turning my stomach into knots without that glance? that text? that wave?

if i didn't have this, what else would be launching me into this adolescent state of nirvana?

maybe life is a cruel pulley system.
someone knows how much we can tolerate, on both ends. our breaking points concerning both happiness and pain. when we wholly exert ourselves on either end, they pull us back.
but that's shit, too, and i don't like it.

i don't like it and it makes me sleepy to think about.
after i drive you around in my car and make you listen to every single song that i've now attached to your existence,
will you tuck me in?

but don't say anything too sentimental.
there's only so much bullshit i can tolerate.