I don’t know where this is going yet, but it is the beginning of something…
You’re just a character I cast in specific stories. Your figure is one I marinade in shaken, chilled psychosis. I think at this point, I can classify “crazy.”
I recall you having acrylics. You recall me having a chain wallet. I wonder how much you have changed. There was so much I had to say, but was too afraid to tell. Who would have believed me? I was new, young and inexperienced: inexperienced with art, relationships, intimacy, right versus wrong. Before I could tackle you, I failed at reading all the signs.
The subtext of our encounter was warning signs. Everyone else stepped away from your door as if wrapped in caution tape; to me, gifts are wrapped, it was just a door so I knocked.
Late at night when we would hang out, you would always play music to drown out what we were really doing. To me, we were just talking. I thought your bed’s spine squeaked enough for background music. But what did I know? I remember it rained one night and you opened the window. I had never met someone who loved rain as much as me. You would stroke my forearm with your acrylics. Sometimes you’d look at me while doing it, or talk over it like it wasn’t happening.
I didn’t know how to tell you I hated it.