each dream has been dreamed too loud, too fast, too self-consuming
everything’s less familiar than it once was
there’s this deceiving phenomenon
we call it ‘people’
they come in different shapes and sizes
they stick around for coffee, plain sex, rushed love or such
then walk away in line.
let’s copy-paste emotions, pretend that it’s love
then paint each-other’s chest with this nothingness we’re feeling
the sound of your voice losing its echo
a glimpse of speed
my need to belong to something out of this world
the world itself, the shapes, the stories, the hundreds of me’s and hundreds of you’s: a form of rejection.