Patterns

I wouldn’t call myself obsessive-compulsive, but I do have patterns. If I don’t follow them, I get nervous, my skin feels wavy. Train rides are the worst. Maybe because my mind is free to wander. Music being pumped directly into my ears via tiny white speakers while I’m being chauffeured over and under the city streets only heightens things. There are two things I must do in order to keep myself settled:

You. Things didn’t work, and I told myself it wasn’t meant to be. I was good at leaving, and you were good at being left. You didn’t seem to care. Where I was desperate, you were quiet, calm, never drastic. I’d worn you out.

We walk and sit and run and climb ledges. Maybe you tell me I’m your ghost, how you seek my ghost approval when combing your bangs down your forehead or falling in love with a new song. The morning light flies off the waves in splinters. We never touch. Our heads come close, but there’s an atomic gap between. I want to punch you in the stomach. I want to bury my face in your jacket.