they’re speaking for you, of you. silently, in tongues they don’t think you’ve tasted.

here is a hand you’ve held, she says. she holds out her lonely fingers. here is a hand you’ve held. why don’t you hold it again? or, why don’t you squeeze it until you can breathe again?

ever since you came back, there’s been this anger. i’m not sure if it’s yours, if it’s even for you— is anger you never felt still for you? is, is, is, was.

there were days where you would gracefully, gracefully forget. you would sit on the windowsill after clearing all the plants on it, you would sit in an empty room and then forget it all happened. you only care when there’s a breeze in your hair: on the lakeside, walking by the hudson, on the street. you miss the streets. so instead you sit with the wind, because you’re a sentimental fool. (is it even sentiment if no one else has ever felt it?)

so now you’re taking the train down so you can find somewhere that you don’t belong (again). maybe you’re addicted to it now. you wish you weren’t. you know he wishes you weren’t either.

ah, you forgot, you forget. he’s calling your name and telling you to get out of his body. so what?

you stay in it, on the f train, looking for anger & sentiments that will never be yours.