I need space. So much space that if you lay me down from head to toe I would stretch across an entire ocean — vast amounts of air drifting through my fingers, waves washing over my skin; spilling onto the shore as a sort of premonition. Almost as if it is struggling to make itself known, a forewarning of sorts residing in my open palms. My touch is the equivalent of yellow tape plastered all over the scene of crime: do not cross or you might get hurt, and regrettably so.
I never did deserve what you had to offer, but I also didn't deserve what you chose to deny me of.