Tongue in your teeth. There is no space between your words and their meaning. I look around the room, like you don’t matter.
We are both worrying. Again.
I am used to being loved, I say with my eyes. As if the number of times means something. As if you’ll feel sorry for me. You are staring at the lamp in the corner, imagining its white-hot bulb where your head should be.
We wait out the worrying, or something human kills it.
In bed, I decide there is nothing normal.
We are weirder and wearier than ever before.
In this light, everything is.
The night air makes us soft, defenseless. We don’t have faces in the dark. I feel sorry for ever wanting you to feel sorry for me. A dismantled thought has many frightening explanations.
Good morning, everything. These next seven minutes will last forever if we focus. (We focus, but not well enough). When they’re gone, they are long gone, swept away like ashes after fire.
You watch me make trivial decisions. Black shirt? Blue? Sometimes, that’s all there is left to do. You watch me with a kind of confused wonder. Where does she go? Where does she put herself?
Right here. I reach for you.
You, capable of killing too much of yourself for an idea. I am so terrified, but won’t tell you that now.
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