There is a wound on both our left shoulders and they bleed in the exact same way. We know this because we stopped in surprise the first time we scratched each other. On some days, this is the best thing to ever happen to me. Past present future included. You know exactly what I think about so you don't let me stay on the terrace for too long. You grab my hand when we cross the road to make sure I keep moving. You see the jealousy I try to hide at the death of anyone below 25.
Do you enjoy this additional responsibility of making sure I live?
I whisper your name when things get too tough. I try to summon you. You don't appear but you would if you could and somehow that is enough. Look at us, half-people.
Desperately trying to create meaning.
You and my demons are on a first name basis. At night, you fight them without fidgeting too much to not wake me up.
Should I be scared? Should I be scared of your familiarity? Should I be scared of the way we fit into each other?
Where do your thoughts end and my thoughts begin? We pray to dead poets. We decide this 50 year old song on the radio was written just for us.
My heart races at the way you decide to linger around. Who knew normalcy could be a drug? So we hold hands in the eye of the storm. We make each other feel things.
We try not to think about what happens when this ends.
How will things be when the storm ends? Will we untangle ourselves awkwardly trying not to make eye-contact? Or will we scream in jubilation? Will we go for coffee afterwards? I hope we go for coffee afterwards.
Look at me writing poems without having met you in the years of loneliness before you
