nobody fades at the edges quite like you
you told me about the time when you were seventeen and all your days were illustrated with haphazard ideas and they stretched lazily into incomplete distances. this was back when your eyes were open wider to take in everything that seemed to be becoming more and more beautiful. you said you felt things like they were fucking sonnets, those were your exact words fucking sonnets. then you put your hands against my head as if you could transfer the feeling, as if your ideas were circulating in your palms and i could catch them, pounding, in the drums of my ears. you asked if i understood so i said that things were beautiful in the way that burning buildings were beautiful. it’s the same thing. did you know that your hands move a lot when you talk, i see your ideas shake and settle in changing patterns. now you tell me, gesticulating wildly, that when you close your eyes you have dreams where all your fingers turn into matchsticks so that it’s impossible for you not to destroy everything you touch. well i’ve only seen one burning building in my life. the timber frames cracked like breaking bones and fell without any precision. the smoke hung in the air, thick like fog, for two full days after. it’s the same thing. even your burning hands will tell you that. sometimes there’s nothing more bittersweet than to feel yourself disappearing.
