Laying here
staring at the ceiling
watching ticking insects
fall by the side of the bed,
sick
for a nostalgia
of a few years ago,
sentimental
viruses
infecting synapses and
ambitions.
The light from outside smells like an old song
that used to be danced to
in a parents living room
when the idea of parents
being away
meant freedom.
The bed feels like a bad sign
that’s yet to be lived, some crazy feeling,
which is somewhere in the future.
Someday
I’ll feel
as I do at this moment and
will
have
to remember
to write it down when it
happens.
The head feels heavy
with whomever I spent the night with,
years from now, I will recognize
that she was only a creature
that had been neglected.
Lost to a collection of
memories,
none of it could be properly
pasted together.
In
each tiny sliver,
I
will see her face looking at me.
Focusing on current predicaments,
pedestrians flocking
from
a bus stop at the corner,
each
one carrying mementos
of themselves to remind them
of
things no one wants to speak of.
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