In the absence of much human contact, we over-analyze the few words thrown our way, attach and inflate meaning to the looks we get. I saw in your smile our entire future and its bitter end. I wrestle that word you spoke to the ground, pin its shoulders back, shine a bright light in its pale face: what are you doing here, word? you should know better, showing up in this part of an idle conversation. I don't know where your questions are headed, but I was going in that direction anyway. Because what is there is not here, and what is here are a lot of unspoken words choking up the air. And I can't wrestle the unspoken ones because they're transparent; they pass through me and chill my bones. It's like chasing ghosts, except I've never been much of a believer. But I can fabricate and daydream, and this I do as I walk, my feet joining with the pavement, watching for the words and listening to the looks that come my way.
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