In my mind, I still see you that way: a collection of vagaries balling on the couch. Your beer on the table, half way through your glass. Your book, almost down to the end. Your unbuttoned clothes, your chest, your heaving, your silence, your heart covered with scars and stitches and scotch tapes.
I was exhausted and you could have been my comfort, but you chose not to notice me. You’re all shadows and I’m all secrets, and after all our fucks and egos, beneath our clothes and bodies, we must have unearthed our hidden contempt.
This is one of those nights when I cannot weave my verses properly. I have thrown the couch and I have gulped the beer, yet in the fabric of my mind, you unravel my memories and insist, through all my filters, to live.
This is why I hate you: you are the sum of every possibility that I will never, ever be able to quantify.