K,
We used to be tessellations, you and I, two shapes moving together along parallel trajectories, but now we live at perpendicular angles. Two planes that no longer intersect. Ten years crowded with memories have slowed to a halt and now I mumble "remember whens" to the person beside me on the train, who shrugs and probably thinks I'm on drugs. Maybe I was. Perhaps, because allegedly the things I recall are retrospective falsifications. Everything has become alleged. You are now alleged. Don't you remember when we got into that car accident, when my flip flop got stuck on the gas pedal and we hit that station wagon with side wood paneling? We sang to each other in the ambulance, me through a mask filled with oxygen and you clutching my hand. The seat on the train is cold and makes my back ache. The chirporactor says I carry my tension in my lower back, so you must be with me. This disconnect could be a product of linear time, although you claim everything is fine it's not because the weight of it all is compacting me into a tidy parcel; I don't occupy much space now. Are we to become constellations, rooted in stubborness and pinned to the sky?
Yours,
L
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I like how all your sentences string together by tangents, but in a way where we can follow the narrator's train of thought. This line really sticks out to me: The chirporactor says I carry my tension in my lower back, so you must be with me.
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