Now, there’s a darker translation for everything said, a subtext that’s an unfortunate residue of all this business. The most minute things that before, hardly registered on my nerve endings — the mildest brushing of fingertips or kneecaps, the whispered breath into my neck — is magnified ten thousand times through these consistantly foggier lenses. That twist of lips is a smile that often prefaced a tackle-hug… or is it the one that you used to hide a crying fit, as you tried to turn away. I can’t tell anymore, and soon I won’t be able to tell that I could ever have told. Us out of relation makes everything else seem out of relation, and giant pink frogs might as well be singing the anthem of my underground at this point because this all makes me realize I’m making less and less sense to myself at an exponential rate.

It’s the black hole after the collapse. Still beautiful, strong, and strange in the way that I love… but not warm. I suppose space is a proper analogy. I want to give you all of it, light years heaped upon each other in a steaming pile, so you can eat it all and overdose and hate it so much and realize that all you wanted was some scrambled eggs. But I suppose loneliness is truly a fine dish served by the unwitting and unseeing, and mine is the best you’ve ever tasted, no?

You stepped outside our little bubble, and now you’re looking in, curious, annoyed, wondering how I can make so much noise over such a small thing. Well missy, I’m staying in here, even if that means I’m dragging in all rest of the world in here to keep me company, and you can feast on the extra isolation I’m givin’ ya.

But there’s always a little extra space in here. If you want.