my friends. (Journal entry, Monday July 6th 22:25)
I see my friend who laminates over lost loves. We sit on her mattress, talking over IPAs and crickets. Both braless.
We have what each other wants.
She speaks of a love she remembers so vividly, like a dream. She misses it, so fondly. She sits on her phone with her new girl, they smile at the box in their hands, like they could feel each other through the screen.
I sit and listen. I ponder while the welling bugs rub their legs together… will I ever find this. And yes most would say that wishing for torment in the form of emotional distress is madness. I say it’s inevitable for a triblade like myself.
As my legs squash beneath my weight, the liquid hits me, and a final feeling of loneliness comes at my limbic nerve, I do wonder if it’ll ever be my turn. Will I also scream at my own love because she never understood me? Will I sit by the phone and cry waiting for the call light to turn red? Will I kiss a woman and not feel the Oman that hangs on my shoulder? Will there be someone who sits and sobs to her friends that she wishes I loved her? Am I waiting for another me? Or am I the lone person waiting to be Sloan by zeus.
