xSofirex

on weekends he lets me hold his hand and curl up beside him -- but it's all wrong; it's like licking the paper instead of the envelope. it's like putting a bandage on the newborn baby's skin instead of on your own teenage, rugged skin. it's like cut-up flesh, meet dirt -- cut-up flesh, meet rubbing alcohol. it's like loving the stranger instead of the neighbour, the neighbour who stays up until 3 o'clock in the morning, assuring you, "he's an asshole, you deserve better, you'll be okay and -- shh, please, please don't cry," -- the neighbour who licks your envelopes for you when you're too busy with the stranger. on weekends, i play with word

This world is filled with questions. We ask each other, when we first meet: What do you do for a living? Who’s your favorite author? What’s your favorite color? And we’re left still, with the emptiness of “I don’t know you”. Because. We forget to ask the questions that really mean something, and we forget how to speak in intimate “I know you” ways of sisters and brothers and friends forever. We forget to ask about why you turned your eyes away, or what do you dream of? Not, where do you want to go in life? But what do you dream. And. We forget to remember. The details, just the little details,