You asked me to write my thoughts on us so far. To collect. I want to do that for you, but I can’t shake the feeling that a can of worms will slowly start to pour out into a mound. Soon to start a swallow. Hungry for deliberate signals. 

I knew what I wanted back when I let my words well up and over the banks. I wanted a confidante, a play partner, a creative workout buddy of sorts. I’m drifting above and below the surface which is the only way I can process all that has happened. I am working on the assignment you gave me, but I want to do it right. Not perfectly, just worthy.

I miss my words, too. They’d have something deserving to say about the peeling burn on my back. About Karma. About floods and washing waters. They would not have missed the metaphor that the internet is a mask. 

I like that you are not so available these days. That I’m genuinely in butterflies all over again. That we won’t ever talk like we come from the same river. That the moment has passed. That language won’t arc in front of us, or turn on her knees.

To that I strike a match, and suck harder on the caramels this girl I know sent me. Do I know her? Does she know me?

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