the arcade

I wonder when I will stop writing about you.
There used to be a tearing ripping sort of thing, like a snag on the sweater of my insides. Now it’s the way leftover glue gets, an ungummed nuisance collecting fuzz in my depths. I know I needed it. I know some people shouldn’t be loved, enabled the way they are. But you’ve thrown off any vestige of control in my life. I couldn’t control your response to my love. And now, I catch my reflection in windows pains and empty wine glasses and see how little I can control my bodily responses to your choice. My mouth always hangs open, perpetually surprised in an empty O, echoing the caverns you left in me. My hands emanate with the words I’m at a loss for, uplifted in that universal gesture of why. It’s like I’m at the arcade and I’m waiting for the machine to light up like a baby Vegas and all I want is to follow your shiny silver trajectory, always surprised by where you are and where you go. But it’s past closing time and my money isn’t good here anymore.

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