accretion disc

Please, god, let you see it. I know that you’re the apple of my eye but I don’t think you think I think you think the same. I think you act accordingly. I think I revolve around you. I think you’re drifting away faster than I can follow.

I think we used to be spectroscopic binary stars, in a past life, but I lost sight of you in the stellar wind a lifetime ago, or an hour ago, and now I can only think in self-deceiving truths, like this:

• I am listening to you shower in the other room and praying to god that you aren’t thinking of overdosing like I would think of overdosing if I was you and you were me. I can’t tell if it’s the shower or the sink has been running all this time, that you’re somehow drowning yourself in there, or if it’s the sprinklers outside and it’s just a beautiful night. I keep our Alleve in my room so that I can take it all if I’m feeling lucky and you can’t if you’re feeling nothing at all but I worry that you’ve got a bottle hidden from me in your room and you’ll choke it down if I stress you out enough, a mutual destruction with pills and blue-faced end times.
• I don’t think I know you as well as I should. I worry you know too much of me. I make guesses when we’re arguing, shots in the dark based on all the parts I don’t like about you and the holes I don’t like about me. You’re always impassive enough that I can’t tell if I’ve struck a nerve and you cry, silently, except for when you don’t and your voice slashes my ears like you’re trying to prove you can scream healthier and harsher than everyone else on Earth.

Can I say I love you without you blowing it off? If you said you loved me, I’d either laugh it off or say it back, 25-75. I hope you’re willing to take my chance but I’m sure as shit not taking yours.

Always and forever,