I can’t help myself. I’m fine. The fluorescence of the newest LIRR models is sickening. I’ve been wearing these tights for four days. I start sobbing on the platform. It doesn’t seem appropriate.

Now that I’m without you. Blame it on November. I swear 49 degrees never felt so frigid. Our life was a debauched circus; when we ordered the wine club box, dangled off the fire escape, danced so hard you puked. Scabies mites passed back and forth; all we wanted to do was fuck. You felt ill if I stayed over longer than a few nights. CLAUSTROPHOBIC. I ran to the bathroom. Cried into the avocado toast. But sometimes it was perfect. All we wanted, each other.

Why do I miss us at our worst?

Mostly I was fine. I was benign baking soda, and you were mine. Yesterday, Aniela helped me move my stuff from your apartment. I took a pair of your boxers from the Ikea laundry bag. Oooh. Freaky Chloe. Page called me a pervert. Why did I think it was the right idea to leave?

But I yap for a moment with Shanley and then I remember. I can’t look at you. I’d fall again. In your absence comes clarity. Serenity. What you’re seeking. 

It would always take you a week to tell me how you really felt about a situation. It was a mask, a way to always come out of a situation the victorious victim. I’m listening to Talk Talk and huffing your shirt.

Did I see tenderness where you saw Hell? Did I see Angels in the hand I held? God only knows what kind of tale you’d tale. I’m living in another world to you. Living in another world.