Soft Keyboards Hard Thoughts

His pupils were sunburned, though the color of the irises remained constant. He made note of the age of my shirt as he took his off. How old were you then, he asked, like an aardvark casually vacuuming up a colony of ants.

Oh, I was fairly young. Still am in my opinion. Physically at least.

I take every word like medicine, but it never cures me. I was too young to die when I first decided I should, but it doesn't seem crazy now. Weak. And hopeless. And kind of sad. But not crazy anymore.

If the ghost could touch. Feel. Surely it would. But such are its limitations. If the ghost could breathe. Choke down the fury of every embrace. It most certainly would. Instead of just pretending. Sculpting false memories from the moist clay the words are born of.

I don't remember much. It's better that way.

The clang of the belt buckle at it would hit the rivet on his jeans. Zipper wide open. Skin flooding the sheets.

It's not that I don't remember how it feels. It's that the feeling never leaves.

Without eyes still seeing, In the darkness, but not lost. Without any words saying. Without a map still knowing how close we are.

I've always seen the distance. But I never wanted to listen to what it had to say.

There was always something there, but you didn't care if I found it.

Maybe yesterday was right when it lied to me. Told me you didn't care.