Most of the time, I pretend not to care.
Sometimes I actually don’t care.
But on those evenings when you’re home alone, lying in bed with a stomach exploding from the half-pound of butter you ruthlessly administered for poignant self-sabotaged, it proves desperately difficult to keep up the pretense.
The loneliness starts to seep in like a fog.
It creeps in through the cracks in the window, and from behind the baseboards. It comes up from the mattress, like a puff of dust, a last exhale from my dying grandmother. Its tentacles ringlet silkily around the room from the music notes of “Blackbird”.
And even though it’s only half-hearted, I wish I was at least desired. It would bring hot-water bottle comfort to know a thing like that.
But it’s only half hearted, and I’m perfectly happy. Just a little lonely.
I'd like a long, strong hug.
But I shake hands at arm’s length, so there’s not much to say.
"Because right now it feels like I'm in free fall"
Sometimes I wonder what that's like.
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