Degrees

The only degree of separation between us is a loneliness that willingly sustains itself

I am still the romance that won me when I was thirteen. Post dating every letter with how late we wanted to be seen as writing. And how the later it was, the better. Sleeping, curving 'I’s, dotting each the wrong letter, because that's just what we did. Wrapped in fantastic novelty. A mixture of new drinks to wet hearts with dopamine. You are still the mom you screamed at when you were fifteen. Putting up a wall against her lack of understanding. You are still the plans you set when you were seventeen. Ignoring the doubt by speaking out with certainty. I am still the fear of waking up and being nineteen. Like Sunday scared of Monday, hiding from a heavy twenty years with twenty minutes spent staring at a clock. Like all those nights of writing promises that I'm sure we’ve both forgotten. We are still the sky we saw at when we were kids. Squinting at a backdrop, wondering what might be behind it. Something, if you've been taught that, and look again if you've forgot that like some kind of mocking curtain, the unseen has made like uncertain. You are still the candles in your burnt out birthday cake. Recounting all the wicks to check for a mistake. "This was is burning for each year I've been alive," you should have said. "Melt away in twelve months time." It's things like that I can't forget that you said

The only degree of separation between us is a loneliness that willingly sustains itself