Neon Tights on a Friday. Typically, Alone.

______, I really like you. I know you live by me.

In a small word, this could be true. But truly, most of that time I’d be sleeping. By you, but deeply enough that I won’t remember whether your earlobes are small and detached. I pay attention to detail. By the centimeter. It disconcerts.

______, I want to get with you. I’ve seen you walking by me.

On a daily basis, yes. I leave at seven thirty. But I probably haven’t seen you yet, because in honesty, this is the first job that hasn’t given me a writeup, and I’d like to keep it that way for the next year or so. And by get with me, you mean partner. You’d like to plan a venture. I’m okay with this over milk and happy graham crackers.

______, I want to play with you. I’ve seen you looking through me.

Blue marble or the red one? The not-so-lidded piggy bank that entraps and saddens even the most complacent of aging goldfish. I tend to play alone, with a broken Atari. The way I did with a pogo stick that brought my ankle to shame. The scar glares blanched, a leg unshaved.

______, I want to satisfy you. I’ve seen you wanting in me.

Now, I believe you’ve misunderstood. I opened the door, you rested and smirked and I hesitated to thumb at your melting curiosities. On top of a bagel, good. On soulful chocolate, God.

I’ll share you with my cat.

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