This was written over a year ago, but has just now been dug up from the vault.
Fuzzy Black Poler shirt smells like Nag Champa and moth balls from spending the night on your couch.
Just the shirt.
I spent the night in bed.
Together in the isolation of our dreams.
Seahawks Crewneck smells like earth and sweat from spending the afternoon under a tree.
I was wearing it.
We were sitting side by side.
Me and you.
Together in the solipsism of our waking reality
I try to talk.
I fuck it up.
We remain silent until our attention is diverted
“Yeah, other people are maybe more fucked up than you or I”
Always seems to be the anchor.
And that’s ok.
We’re not in danger of losing one another.
I know that and so do you.