she gets dressed like this;
socks first, because "why the hell not" she would say, left foot then right foot, always in order.
then, her undergarments because, "you kinda need those until you can advance on." she'd whisper, rolling her eyes and releasing a breathy laugh.
then she'd pull on her shoes, I don't know why though, because you really can't pull your jeans over the chunky parts.
then her shirt, and she'd look fucking ridiculous because she still didn't have her stupid pants on.
lastly, she took 15 minutes to pull the damn jeans over her shoes, but she was done.
I now know that I took watching her getting ready for granite, because now she's gone, and I'm writing it in an old journal, watching the train roll past.
+ this poem is basically about the guy over analyzing a ton of shit about the girl getting dressed , and losing her because of it. this is based on me I guess. over analyzing shit is horrible and you can't really control it til it's too late