I cringe every time I think of you. I can’t help but squeeze my eyes closed to avoid the mental visions and create a hundred wrinkles in my forehead and between my eyebrows to dissipate the memorialized pain and humiliation. I can’t help but press so hard that I have a topography of my rage on the page underneath. The last ten times we talked were in my head. Then there was the message you never responded to and the time you walked me out and then everything is just blurry before that. I can’t stand the fact that we will never see each other again and that I can’t remember my last conversation with you. Time is so deceptive. It moves at a steady pace, deceivingly steady, yet personal to everyone. I am envious of its effortless progress, yet resentful of its greed. Only when you step back can you perceive its elusive flow, yet it is necessarily in these moments that you miss everything that it advects. Some days I feel like I’m going nowhere. But it must be 670 to 730 times worse for you. I know you will never reach out to me in my lifetime. And I can’t help but wish that I will not reach beyond my grasp.


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