My evenings with you were decked with connective tissue. This was refreshing, considering I spent my years mostly pretending I was starring in music videos and other quasi-realities of life. That's how graceless I was. Lost in the sea of conformity or death, all the time my cerebral cortex hollering at me in confusion.
I always felt like a secret game was being played and no one would tell me the rules. But the rules you came up with were explained to me by your comforting, animalistic presence so simply that the confusion finally ceased.
This idea seemed Newtonian in its novelty, simplicity, and ability to instantly solve any and all problems. It was a giant red OFF button. Anxiety paused.
And now you're in the place I was in and I can't do a damn thing about it. You, curled up into yourself, like a can of soup on a shelf, your depression swirling around inside you like broth. You're as distant to me as a fictional character. What the hell does your face look like? I rake my mind for it like dragging a river for a body. I usually find it difficult to relate to someone reduced to such a memory of a memory of a memory, but with you it's the opposite. I'm overwhelmed by the sheer number of neurons you occupy.
So stop it. I have other things to focus on, and simply cannot be bothered by the tightening of my chest muscles as my mind wanders toward you. I wanna storm into the woods angrily, and drag you out of them by your wrist like an irritated parent. Be happier and leave me alone. Choirs of angels sing in harmony. End scene.
