surprisingly

there's a 3 where the 1 was and something has shifted. but i'm not one of those who writes when they're ok. a sudden longing for my hemingway books stored in a garage in the valley or maybe they're lost forever, i won't know, and i'm trapped in this in-between place where i do not know the things that belong to me. you took so much and pretended you didn't.

i'm not living in my head but in the past again. i'm spending days fist to my gut because i want a physical reason. you ought to have socked me before i called the cops but that would've made it believable, wouldn't it?

ambiguity and lies and i'll never know, i'll never know.

who i'm talking to here is interchangeable, depending. you two are each other, don't you know. my god i hope you know who you are but you'll never read this. you'll never have the luxury.