Ourselves

A crisp lightness fills the spaces and brings a glimpse of spring to the winter day. I have nothing but you and my pain, which sets my mind racing.

A flimsy love between two independent souls, both longing for the rain to wash their sadness clean; two souls haunted by fear of failure, of not being the favoured child, of living with selves harder on themselves than any other person.

If money was not required in this capitalistic hell, we would be free to be ourselves.

I’m on the train now going to ruin my life again, but I have you through the ages; you and me against the world, ready to live once again. 

Your Socks

We loved each other so well.

You used to throw your socks at the bookcase when you arrived home, I would scold you, and then you would give me that disarming smile of Satan.

I would always wash your socks, hang them up to dry or put them in the dryer, and then lay them out in pairs only to fold them into smiley faces. 

You decided to stop throwing your socks at the bookcase. Instead, you started taking them off in your computer room surrounded by your books, snacks, and hentai.

I wept for us and decided to let you go.

You’ve gone away, never to throw those smelly socks at the bookcase.

The ones you left behind don’t smile the way they used to.

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