Time is long and space is empty and there is room to be so many people in a box that is no bigger than a shoebox; slightly larger than a fist.
I don’t want you but I could have you and still, I know: I’ll never know you. The mystery is the wanting all in itself—a chase. A chase with hidden corners and a fight that isn’t fair and weapons dipped in poison asymmetry. We are all eyes, but only one of us is watching.
I won’t have the chance to ask you my questions, or dig in my nails, or unravel the knots that you’ve wound all around them, but I still see the thread. You leave out the ends and tempt me to pull them. I cannot reach them from where I sit, but I have my own instruments. I learn to slide along the white keys, contort my fingers into knots, stretch my pitiful hands to the breaking point, just to say hello.
Space is empty and most people never touch—except, sometimes, through blunt instruments.
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