We have a distance pact so that since July, we won’t break the other’s space, the way we did then, when you were a Columbus pedlar even when the reality is we weren’t each other’s firsts, or thirds. And when we street bump people whose collars we’ve lifted, sifted, sucked, we reinforce housework we do and what we’re prepared to and yours is a neck promise, calendar irrelevant, and each past person’s a desperate text, public plead for a relationship which ended abruptly because some things aren’t written to last, remembered only anecdotally as a, “Fuck no, don’t remind me. God.” But you, a reboot of a reboot of a remake, don’t need recasting. Never needed Shia LaBoeuf to re-legitimise you. And we are the kiss that loses to Robert and Kristen at the Movie Awards consecutively but, really, maybe, shouldn’t.
