Who will be left when you go? Who will I watch when you’re gone?

I wake up with the guilt I was programmed with at five, stapled to at six, and I can’t always pinpoint the reason. I think, last night, I dreamed of you undressing, and I wondered how you exposed yourself easily in front of audiences. I unlocked each navel and scar.

Maybe you’ll kiss onscreen more. You won’t let people cheat. You’ll have a fixed identity from day one, instead of a slow spill, steady evolve, re-written, re-dressed Kelly Kapoor one, which is not a criticism. Just I would’ve seen that potential sooner, and would’ve addressed it.

You could be the new Deschanel. You might meet Jennifer Aniston.


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