Haze, incomplete.

Not being loved is a strange feeling. Have you ever felt feathers on top of your eyelids? It is a sensation almost like nothing, yet it lingers, stops you from opening your eyes.

I keep feeling smaller and smaller, till I convince myself I can fit in my drawer, and then I see that has so much room, I shift my wordly possessions inside a bottle. I am a genie now, what is your wish?

I wish for happiness.

Gallantly I procure the keys, jangling in my hand, the smoke machine and overhead lights making me a conjurer. Grace, grace, you are my prayer in the twilight. I refuse to backspace away tonght. I am a genie tonight.

Gallant. The word tumbles from my tongue like a giggle. I am so accustomed. A wheel ground in the wrong direction and smiles feel outofplace.

What if I abolished spacebars? Spoke like Bukowski’s lover, only in hastags instead of uppercases?

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