here is someone who is interesting.
yes, they are interesting.
you have multiple things in common.
yes, many a thing.
yet you cling-
cling. cling is a word.
a word indeed.
clinging would require a grasp.
and you-
i grasp at nothing.
how would one define the last 6 months?
complete mental failure.
you used to speak of love.
i know nothing of love.
you liked the country side, i remember.
king city…
yes! you like to drive there in the summer.
it is calm there.
you went there last summer.
fucking wheat and crickets, that is all…
…this person, they seem nice.
nice, yes.
let’s give it a try?
a try…
yes, an effort into something.
but i am unsure.
where is the thrill in complete assurance?
i suppose i could try, if they’ll have me.
yes, do try.
i could try.
the only sound left was a dull dial tone. i said i had to go. the whole drive home i felt like crawling out of my skin. like introducing pedals to floors. like connecting with that wall.
i turn away, exhausted. i stare at the cement walls that don’t deserve my attention. i state obvious statements. i bleed obvious grief. but i’m already on my way.
i was never here.
“but-“
let’s just pretend i never came by.
“-she’s coming home soon.”
i’m never here anymore.
sitting on the couch. not thinking about much. some dramedy is on the tv and everyone else seems completely engrossed. my mind starts to drift. the lady in the movie wrote a play about the man and all the times they spent together. something something something. the man goes to the opening night unbeknownst to her. whatever. he watches the play and realizes the whole thing is about him.
suddenly i’m running up the stairs and █████████ ████████ ███████. i’m telling ████████ ██████████ and i ██████ ██████ and that i need ███████ ██████ █████████ whatever this is that ██████ ██████doing. that i ███████ █████. and i’m crying. i swear to █████ i mean it and i swear to █████ i ██████.
but really i’m still downstairs.
the lady is crying. she just found out the man saw her play.
twin 12 year old boys sit me down in my old high school during this post-apocalyptic dream of mine. they are similar to the oracle’s orphans from The Matrix, wise and well spoken. i tell them i don’t have time and that i have to get back to the armada. i’m wrapping up the cuts on my hands impatiently. they reminded me that i used to have words sent out in a subscription, and it took 2 years before they really stuck. and then, when the words ended, everyone looked at their empty hands and started searching for me.
so they knew. i put down my gun and listened.
