"IM not writing from my heart," I said, "I'm writing so someone can place theirs where mine is absent."
A pause. "A funny conclusion."
Funny as the idea of the heart beating without blood. He disagreed.
The only time he seemed to disagree was when he was aware of the the fact that his thoughts were the same as mine. Was that accurate? If blood beats along with its heart, too.
Then it was accurate.
"DO you ever feel lonesome?" He had asked me one particular humid day. I twirled my pen before saying curtly, "The only people who feel lonely are those who hold grudges."
Do I hold grudges? No, only if something is worth holding onto. The usual condescending reply, "Would you hold a grudge against me?"
A breeze cut through the air, and I couldn't help the daring glance I sent his way. Regardless of the countless times I wished for that ice in his eyes to melt, he seemed indifferent. I set my transcript down on the glass table beside me, " I suppose it depends on whether or not you make a decision worth holding onto."
A fiery smirk. The "I see right through you, but will never attempt to catch you in this game" smirk he wears when we share the same thoughts. "Touché."
Buongiorno. Come stai? "Sto bene." Are you fine? He's fine, he says he's fine. Yet he worries 'bout the time. Wonders if it will fly by.
Every second must be yours. For I spend minutes rest assured that my thoughts aren't mine, and yours aren't yours. "Sto bene." If he's fine, I'm fine.
