I’m not sure where to write this but I felt as I needed to write it somewhere, even if it means I need to type it up on my useless sidekick of a phone to transfer over to here. I’ve gotten into thinking about what I always do, what I always let myself ponder of not even in the instant of intention, it just happens and I can’t help it and I let myself dream so far it’s unreal and almost a pity. I always live in these moments that never happen, in my head. And dare I say it, I’m good at it. I live in moments where I’m in the midst of extreme like, you could almost say infatuation but it’s like I’d know I do like her, but close to the edge where you could say you don’t want to say you love her because it sounds wrong to slip from your mouth because people make it seem that way, but you kind of believe so. Or know so. 

But the thing is, it’s in my head. It’s so vivid it’s actually scary the way it emits into my head, it’s as if you could say. I emit hope for things I long for so much. To dream of stages, it’s almost forbidden. I mean, what faggot thinks of that shit? Me apparently. I always let myself live in my head, just in there. No where else really. It’s almost tragic, with a hint of brilliance, and a beautiful outline that kind of goes in loops into the vast spaces of black nothing but, who cares right? The warmth you feel when you put put your hand on the heat soaked cement, you can feel it. It’s so real, in your head. And then comes moments where you ask her to smile so you can slip your fingers across her dimples, or where you just have a sudden fucking urge to hold her hand, and clench it. And why does my head do this? Jesus Christ maybe I’m just that alone that I let my head play with lonely people, like torture. I think it’s funny sometimes. After you lived it in your head, you just laugh. About how much of a joke it is. 

The way, we can play moments and fall for beautiful physical infrastructure. And then you walk by people and you want to do the same but you know you can’t. It’s not the same. It’s too problematic, it’s too complicated. It’s too much attention, drama. Rhetorical questions.

When the hell did anyone ever let someone else just sit down with them, and just look at each other, no matter how blank the stare, how stale the air, how quiet it is. Slip the hand across mine. I’m tired of trying to commit in terribly fascinating conversations, god as if everything just HAD to be interesting. Can’t we just sit, or lay down. Look up, too. I’m not a interesting guy. I don’t even like talking. What ever happen to that shit. Why do people expect me to be thoroughly fascinating to get something out of me. As if someone had to spice up your boring ass life to keep them in it. Look at me. I’d be fascinated by everything, that doesn’t mean I’d say it. Be in my presence long enough, you just. You just know.

That’s all I ever wanted. For them to just know, and fuck off from asking the questions that don’t want to be answered. Our breaths are so low. We mustn’t speak. We don’t need to. To know me.