Twice in a week period, I relapsed; I thought I was more than I was. And for a second, it felt like I was. Then the reminders came with the fist of gravity that guided me home and like a drunk, I appeared on the ground. The concrete was cold. The world was cold. I was cold.

Twice in a week period I relapsed, thinking I was you. Thinking I could do all the things that you do. Oh how you meander through life whimsical, feeding off the arms extended to you like some entity greater than us all. Oh how you could careless about tomorrow events and the day after could be a mess, but you know not to be distressed. And really all you actually do is wait for things to fall through. I could never be like you, waiting on a seemingly endless queue. Not a move, not wince, never even a change in hue. That stillness! Waiting for gifts to fall from the sky. And yet, when it comes down to it, everyone usually overlooks me for you.

Perhaps I don’t truly see all the things you do. Is it your hair? The smirk you give before you send them the clues? The way she sees you is never on fours, but from an angle looking up at you as her knees are drowning in dew. I could never fit your shoes. I just wish I would have remembered that before I tied the laces till my ankles were blue.

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