#29

you, me, and the drops that inundate the concavities of our bodies, that saturate our skin and lave the faint aromas of acetone that might've come from our thin and innocent nails or from our equally thin and innocent tea bags which we involuntarily infused with ridiculously sweet carbonated drinks containing strong notes of the liquid that removes. all we ever did was dance, hurt, and think of new and exciting ways to forget our time together; i should've known we would all become characters to each other, us the protagonists and the others the supporting actresses in our respective coming-of-age movies. "how does one enjoy life when not a seminude, semiconscious danseuse?" we asked each other, i ask myself still, i adored being the danseuse with idealized flaws. i wish i could say we were close, so inexplicably intimate that we merged in our inebriated states, but it wasn't the case, us and the things we wanted were too different and we were never good actresses. eventually, we all had to break character and the silver screen life we so carefully crafted collapsed, all that i miss from it is the shared nudity and barely reckless acts. you were my first taste of a bond, of human proximity. looking back, we were always as cold and detached as we are now, but we were lonely and misshapen, was it so wrong to pretend we had fun? to pretend it could transcend our loneliness? to pretend it had nothing to do with it?
distancing myself from a cliché to become the same, only this time solitary and more desperate.