Re-plying him

The other morning when you stayed, I realized I could wake up every morning like that, to you studying Chemistry on the kitchen table. How could we have interpreted that morning so differently? Like, was he in there holding a straw up to her cracked lips to drink or was he taking advantage of her induced semi-consciousness? I imagined being nudged in the middle of the night to you breathless about an idea or a dream you just had. I want you to wake me up in the morning to the song you downloaded from the movie you made me watch the night before with the composer whose work you admire. I want you to conduct on my spine. I want you to manage everything all at once or wrapped tightly in a blanket. I want to smell good to you. I want there to be enough time—time where you’re glad to give, focused, concentrated. I want you to indulge with me, and I want you to realize that it’s transcendent and light. I want you to not think I’m dragging you down to hell. I want you to accept subjectivity and abstraction—the vagueness in me and not assume that I’m bad. I want you not to measure it—not what’s in your hand, but the time you wasted on the phone, or the hour you’ll spare, or the past 8 months out of your life you’ve wasted. Treat me like you cry in the movies, like the look on your face, like the dead bird on your porch.

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