You Are Something

You drew a line with a finger, where the booth cushions met, said, “Don’t cross it, yeah?” I didn’t plan to, then, even as I edged closer. That was a test, a buffering at 68% permanently, no chance of an actual load.

You still sit across from the line, always on that side, to my right, and I’m usually first to move. Destroyed now I know what it’s like. Before, I relegated connections to a section in my head for fiction, religion and make believe. That third day I had to concede some times invisible isn’t absent. And now I’m absolute certain of it.

You’re cotton wool soaking me up. And each time a decry of, “Absence doesn’t fondness make,” is thrown between bottled beers, you raise a hand, and everyone knows what you’ll say without you ever saying.

Proximity. Who knew? Who really fucking did, though?

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Fuck ‘Em Only We

If I state what I am, like, do, don’t, would never, you shrug and say sure. You see the hologram sticker version of me, not standard issue, and you enjoy every glint, reflect and awful detail. You’re at the edge of each sentence I say with a tailored response like you’re listening. I mean, maybe you actually are? It seems unlikely to 96% of the cross section of people we interview about it, but unlikely isn’t off-table altogether.

If you text, said you weren’t coming back, that I’d never, I wonder what I’d do. But until a person’s in a situation, can’t nearly imagine; it’s only conjecture. No one can guess, though they try, they stab, do. And their answers, like scientific revelations, I’m meant to prescription swallow according to a personalised rule set. I take advice from doctors: anything else is ridiculous.

I shouldn’t blame the judgement-ists. They didn’t feel it.

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This Could Kill Me

Sometimes, you realise things it’s best not to know: a church upbringing is responsible for disappointment thick like missing filling Oreos, and dreams aren’t prophetic however much you hope. There’s more, sure, but lists are fun when it’s who’s fuckable, or which lips you’d kiss if you had to, and whose body you’d trade like Pogs orĀ MTG.

A lot of these realisings happen at night once you sign off with goodbye or no and you nightlight stare, wonder which episode of the season this is equivalent to? The shaky first one, or smack in the middle when nothing happens, is pretty much filler, a bottle.

I realise you but don’t want to. Get that? I don’t want to. I can’t text book digest or essay write, or I could and that’s the problem. Being grown ups sucks. Time to lose brain cells, choose which knowledge to shrink like rice in the microwave, drying the water out you just cooked into there. Head on a stick.

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