I don’t know what I want from you. I know
that on your birthday at the diner in your
All About Eve way, you say, “I can’t tell
if this is the first scene of our biopic or
if we’re three quarters in.” I say, “Holy
shit, that’s sad,” and you say, “Oh
wow, it is.” We drink our coffee and avoid it.
I got my future read and as someone on
Reddit said, “You shouldn’t mess with
Tarot cards.” Sad and sinking at the
potluck, I think of you and walk
home. You ask, “What is it that’s holding
you back?” I say, “I think I’m letting
fantasy warp reality in some episodic
way…” I just can’t line the pieces up.