On the Surface of a Perforated Sphere

Over a shot of your 252 and a glass of plain lemon water of mine we exchanged our notion that evening. Casually and unpretentiously. But still, the kind of conversation that would intrude my mind for weeks or possibly more, partly because: 1. Your queer accent had always been my strange sort of muse; 2. Your judgment towards unhappy facts had even been growing more liberally since the last time we had such discussion—despite possible cause of simply different shots you had; and 3. Your wavy edges of hair draping behind your trilby hat fit you like never before.

The other part was just because, it’s you and me again. Trying to befit our fortune and deal with the infelicitous consequences. Repeating the same cycle of melancholia, followed with acceptance, and then hunger for coming back.

Have we never learned anything?

Oh, darling, we have. We always have. But we have always decided to also forget the lesson that we’re the sorts of variables that could never coexist altogether in any equation, simply because we believe in possible new approaches to overcome that biggest issue of our affinity.

Whether it’s actually realistic or not.

Oceans away from where we were, a soul that was supposed to be half of me was undergoing their life on a casual daily basis, being clueless about what I was suffering, not even having time to care, not even asking.

A quick stroll away from where we were, a soul that had recently been responsible for your constant source of fun—fulfilling part of you I could never afford—was waiting for you to knock on their bedroom door; being clueless about what you were suffering, not even having time to care, not even asking.

And there we were, getting stuck in the same final question as always. And our approach towards it would be you unconsciously staring at my face, which I reply with the exact same of motion; and for seconds we’ll begin to notice again how the freckles in our eyes are mirror images if only we could stand close enough to also notice that they’re perfectly aligned.

And that stops only when one of us giggles, and looks away, and laughs at our constant trait of being folly.

Because our skins don’t even know each other. Unlike yours and hers. Or much fewer parts of mine and his. Our different set of boundaries defines it all.

And you appreciate that, and I appreciate you for appreciating that.

But hey, our eyes.

The only entities that communicate the most when our voices no longer do.

“So what are we going to do now?”

“I don’t honestly know.”

“We never did, do we?”

“We always did. We chose to ignore all the time.”

“Then?”

The guy in the live band sang Transatlanticism in the way we never heard of before, and just like that, we knew the only answer for our ponder rightaway.

To be close, no matter what we are, no matter what we can or cannot do,

or become.

I need you so much closer.

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