last night, i dreamt about you in a way only i can. you didn’t smoke then, and were gentle. we couldn’t remember the reason for the fight. you called me baby. i woke up sneezing. i have a thousand made-up rules on how to go about it all— when to tolerate, when to walk away, when to swallow my pride, and the ensuing bile. this morning met every impossible requirement i set; the stars devolving into something like fate, and still, i hesitate. my right leg falls asleep as i write this and i take it as a sign of stagnation. i hope it rains, if only to justify so much feeling so early in the day. you won’t read this. it isn’t for you. ((only the sidewalks, the lights, the deltas of time and change.)) i just want to say, for the record and the jury, that before i woke— i fell asleep there, on the back of your arm, and when i said i didn’t want to lose you again, i meant it.

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