It happened like seasons. a catalog of moments more or less. pinned to the wall, carried in your backpack. single drinks that don’t last long enough and motel rooms where the sun always comes up. it’s a lot like spinning circles. it can be good and still go nowhere. you can say goodbye a thousand times but still the story runs the same way. I’d read this. not like it’s not real. how much is fabricated conjecture and daydreams? one time you called me contrived. I think by now we both know that the only truth, well, it lies in the eyes. If anyone ever says what they are actually thinking, I hope I’m there to hear it.