I lean back into the seat of your car, warm and early-morning, mouth dry. You’re buying doughnuts, I’m waiting, listening to the low heartbeat bass of a band that has another song about cough syrup. The sun angles itself nicely in the morning. I’d forgotten.
I need a shower, I think, cracking my gum. I need to cry. They’re two separate interconnected thoughts.
You come back, hand me a doughnut. Your hair’s greasy. You’re so unspecial. For a second you seem like a total stranger. I shake my head quickly, recollect myself.
"You know I hate chocolate."
I live in a town of sleepwalkers.
All I want is a life that shakes without trembling; a sadness that never bides its time.