feel blessed. Rock n’ roll, indie pop at 10:17PM; no fireplace but I think you are warm enough. Wind howls. Wind howls. My hair drips drops onto your clothed thigh. We both pretend that they are tears, that the hand on your shoulder is one borne from nakedness; we both pretend that the screaming in the background is just the whirring LED overhead lights, we blend out of this world and we sink into pebbles of nonconformity I want to build you a protest/and riot in front of it that encompass us. rain pours down. We pretend that they are tears. We pretend that they are tears. We pretend that the clouds are I hope you move on/I hope I don’t chase after you/I hope that you throw me to the road/and learn not impending doom, or a prophecy. The train tracks lie in front of me. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.