dear you and you over there.

now perhaps you have heard of a friend that I cannot feel. no, perhaps not but your eyes are glazed and you are wheeling those heavy arms with a putrid laugh. oh, i am almost ready. not quite yet.

she sits in a room accross from a boy with brown hair while cold air circulates, snow, let it snow. he shivers and she smiles and smiles. the gripping of grey plastic seats does not suit him, white-knuckled liar. perhaps underneath ribs he could shelter a paper heart beating to berate clock systems. of course, and no, she thinks so more. he couldnt and shouldnt, with a grey cotton sweater be like me. he is not like me and he knows it.

perhaps i only noticed because he was the only other one shivering. there were squeaks of patents and dry-mouth sighs, yet he sat with pink-flustered cheeks. i swear he would cry but he is too proud no (with no esteem at all). i would have held his hand but his name was less important than the wrinkles in my jeans. needed to be deeper until the valley of creation stalks the bone-peace of solitude.

yes, he was quite stark now as the woman looked down at him. and next, and next, and next. he trudged (as he was bound to that office-chair, bound to me and me only) toward a cracked door. i could hear his cracked voice explain he wasn't hungry, he was happy, he wasn't boney, he was fair...he wasn't, he wasn't breathing like his paper heart and gasps were the silences.

i think he knows i am watching now, but does he hide, no friend and no. nothing breaks the walls in me like his woven fingers and glassy eyes. i could have trusted him, i would have liked to kiss a porcelain surface (to serve as a reminder). i was jealous and lustful but he was simple when he slipped past me to the door. just as the clearing of the dry-throat i escaped, the clouds were too painted to waste with grey chairs.

and next, he knows i am watching him.
good friend
and so do i.
a.a. where do you go from here and will you stay? pick your fates like steps in minefields.