even though i hold grudges and you secretly hate me, when we make french toast at 1 AM and talk about how much we hate the world and how senselessly miserable we are, it is all okay somehow. you leave the dishes in the sink and i snap at you for something trivial and irrelevant, but it’s a haphazard kind of place, and we are haphazard kind of people. we are sitting on the only clean patch of carpet in the living room, and probably the only clean patch of space in the whole world, and we’re thinking that the world might be an okay place after all, it just might, even when i’m sitting on my bathroom floor holding my knees and you’re running your fingers through my hair and i’m remembering again. but remembering is some strange unknown kind of formality, and forgetting is beautiful. what do we remember? we are forever on the outside looking in, trying to recognize ourselves from behind the glass, and we are not real, we have dreamy tongues that lap at the corner of our mouths and we melt before we can feel anything on our burning skin, but we are, we just are, sometimes, somehow, haphazardly. it is enough, most of the time.
