I am staring at your face as though it were a definite, as though it were an answer to the grave. Too much. You groan. Like a long lash in the eye—how quickly the nice thing turns into the thing that makes you run. You will type me this: I look too much. Too, too. You can never pick your teeth. You can never scratch your balls. All those regular disgustings and I’m always in the way. I smile because I am shy and in love with disappointment. I wonder how the heart feels when it isn’t feeling much. When it doesn’t weigh each beat a breaking point. You will say this: I liked it better when we were friends and you weren’t lonely. But I liked it best when we weren’t friends and I was, I was, I was.