Compression

This, my dear friend is a fucking gender game. This whole love shit. You don’t say it. You don’t ever say it. You sit on it. You weigh it. You scribble on the margin. But never in the body proper. Never. You make elaborate plans on forgetting about it, about keeping yourself occupied enough for it to not bother you. Unrelenting, you then strive to ignore. Yes, haha ignore. And then you do nothing but think about initiating another conversation. Just another? Just one tini-wini-little another?

Before you know he pulls out a fag, you extend a match. Both burn.

But you don’t say it. You don’t ever say. You type it. But never send it. You type it

Two sentences, three words,

Another three

And then backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace .

I really don’t need reciprocation. But had it not been all this complex, perhaps, I would have walked up to you and said “Will you talk to me for life? I’ll just sit there and listen”

And walk off.

Then come back and say “No, I may not just sit there all along, I’ll walk around, kick ashcans, lash at the air with broken twigs, dust the knees of my denim, throw the cap up in the air and miss it, perch myself on a low branch, hide behind pillars, stand on a spot and refuse to move, correct your grammar every now and then- “...its comprised not ‘comprised of’”, looking away all the time.”

Or perhaps, if I feel feminine enough I might just say ‘Let’s have puppies together!’