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?