Flowers For A Grave

We never did say goodbye.

That’s what gets to me. Everything about this feels wrong.

Especially the fact that I’m counting on this piece to tell you what I can’t bring myself to.

It’s ironic how it went from when I could hit you up with anything just a month ago to this blankness.

This gaping void that widens the more I consider crossing it.

 

Just a month. What ever did happen?

 

I did get busy.

I got as busy as I could to hide. Conveniently.

I needed the space to stop thinking about how I was betraying you.

If having feelings is a perfectly natural instinct that people cannot avoid, so must be not reciprocating.

And I can’t.

This shouldn’t have to be this hard. Read more

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Xeno

 

xeno
n. the smallest measurable unit of human connection, typically exchanged between passing strangers—a flirtatious glance, a sympathetic nod, a shared laugh about some odd coincidence—moments that are fleeting and random but still contain powerful emotional nutrients that can alleviate the symptoms of feeling alone.

 

Two of the five young adults were deeply intimidated.

The man sitting a desk apart was dynamic and – as writers, they couldn’t point out a fitting word for his personality. They didn’t feel much shame- they barely had time to acknowledge it.

They were busy coming up with any sort of filler questions because this was a baffling interview.

All the traditional questions had been swept off a cliff because he kept coming up with nonanswers.

To what was a success, he slinked away with saying he wasn’t in the least bit successful.

To any role model figure, he’d said he had none.

To what were his hobbies, he shrugged.

 

They thanked  the heavens their Editor wasn’t there. She’d definitely have had a panic attack that he was avoiding all their questions.

This was a textbook stressful situation but he was so chatty and vivacious they weirdly felt at ease.

Three girls and one guy sitting in an office of a multi millionaire and they all felt comfortable.

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Winds Of Change

Long drives in buses gave her time to think. She didn’t like that.

She put in two buds bearing rhythmic sounds and pretended to be blank.while all the while her head was misty, working away with a dull static noise that even loud music didn’t seem to filter out. The roads winding up a hill were matched to the crescendo of the song. She waveringly smiled.

She was conflicted with love, as young girls generally are at that age. The age of a blossoming. The completion of any metamorphosis. A new perspective on everything. A perpetual existential crisis.

The desire to question everything but not know the answers. Very questionable music taste.

The man in the seat next to hers observed quietly, indiscreetly.

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