Tis the Season

Season of breakdowns.
Hard and heavy.

Not wanting to impose.
Hand to phone.
Is it okay that I’m calling him.
Whatever, what is “okay” anyway.
We talk for over an hour.

He is calming and funny and comforting.
He is happy to have a way to be my friend I think.
He is my frend in many ways, but most are shady.

We’re a mitten hand pat on my shoulder away from a hand in my hair.
We’re a hand in my hair away from something I’d write in more detail about.

Season of ‘Kissing older boys in cold cars’.
I named a painting this at 17.
It was about him.
The colors of his frozen windshield.
I painted it with my face.
Not knowing it’d be a prophecy.

“The king and queen of hipster”
I am flattered and distraught at the same time.
I am freaked.
Makes me feel like everyone really is watching.

I can’t tell.
It fucks with my head.

Every possible angle twists around the things I’ve heard and tangles.
Webs upon webs upon webs of perceptions.
Perceptions upon webs.
Too much.

He shrugs and I grimmace.
They are drawing all over the walls.
I’m sipping tea.
Wednesdays are for comedy.
His eyes caught on me.
Pun-topia at this table right now.
My keeping up isn’t happening.

We are not who we’ve been any time before.
Today, he has a moustache and I have breasts.

“Hey” his chat box pops up on my screen.
“Do you have time to talk right now?”
“Yes!” I say, happy to have a way to be his friend I think.
I am his friend in many ways but most are shady.

Season of revelations.
Hard and heavy.