Fistful of Sentences

His voice hits hard and fast, like a fistful of sentences. I don’t like this version of him, haven’t seen it before. Must’ve been buried beneath the covers of his bed we lounged in until the hazy sun of the afternoon sneaked through the blinds and poured over our crescent moon shaped bodies. He must’ve forgotten it, like the time he forgot his wallet in the car and I waited outside the movie theatre thinking I could wait here forever. He must’ve hidden it underneath the kiss on my forehead and my freckled shoulders, under words that made me feel like all this made sense.

This version of him is rough, its brittle, it cuts my skin and breaks it into stupid little pieces that scatter like mismatched jigsaw pieces. The impossible course of action is decided in the coarse of his voice. I am left out of the decision. Left to reminisce over a purgatory of what if’s and could be’s and how come’s. The perpetual loop of our pop chorus love stuck in my head like the tangled metallic ribbon of a cassette. I hit pause and play and always rewind, but no matter what I can’t skip over this version of you.

This version of you, with it’s sense of entitlement and self-righteousness. This version of you, that’s letting go of this version of me. This version of you, that’s forgetting that version of us.


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