Warning: This work has been rated 16+ for language.
there's a space between each of us that we have
to do something with, because it's all that keeps us
consequential. to some, it is a blessing.
to yourself, it is the end of the world.
there are rituals in place, there are snags and
loopholes of etiquette that allow us to be close;
close, but not too close, and
therefore we are saved.
you texted me yesterday
to remind me you existed somewhere else
in the void, somewhere through association/dissociation
and ceramic. i'm trying to envision it, boys on
porches like a fucked up norman rockwell painting.
i told you many things, about the time
i thought i could coexist with ghosts.
i couldn't, but i guess that's fine.
i think that bringing back the memories
only made things worse.