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random jotting.
I close my eyes and I'm twelve, laying on the fuzzy beige carpet in your room and talking about arachnids with eight legs and old automobiles. You used to be fond of things like that, things people had no taste for. What was said was lost in cross fire that late Tuesday night, bits and pieces splayed throughout the years of our noise. We slept in your white-walled room on the floor in sleeping bags with nothing around us but walls, no furniture because we were moving, no trace that we played games here and made it our sanctuary by tacking pastel bedspreads to the cieling with nails.

I wonder if you could tell by my passive smiles that night that I'd felt strewn and weary, yet so glad to be promised change. You're a year younger than me with chocolatey brown eyes (they're mom's eyes, you know, only with green) and you always did keep your doubts shut tight behind locked cabinets, never took time to polish those sick, scared things inside you lovingly the way I do with mine. Those sick things leak through my ribcage when I try to shut them in. Do you see them? Sometimes I think you're the only one that can, and just don't point them out to me. But I see them.

After all these years they won't go away.

You always were a boy filled with motion, you know. A whirlwind people moved with, stepped aside, and gravitated from like a battle you were waging with yourself, dancing around obstacles blind to all but you. Sometimes it's hard to make you sit still for a goddamn second and love a moment serenly the way I do, instead you make it into something it wasn't before, mold it like puddy with your hands. But me, I like to watch what becomes of things that aren't tampered with. I let them fester and bloom and decay because once they do, it's like a miracle has crashed into me. We are nowhere close to each other on the plane of similarity yet we've lived so long like best of friends. I'm struck by this daily and am happy for it. I remember holding pebbles by the lake afraid that something terrible was going to drag us in, laughing as we recalled that little stuffed animal you had as a child, that one you gave superpowers to, while I invented worlds for it to conquer. That stuffie, what was it's name? You told me he was invinsible, could destroy a storm, but you were my only hero.

The soul is such a flammable thing, brother. Time hardens it, wrings it dry, burns it out like a candle if your knees just can't hold your weight. But I keep standing still and I try so hard to take things as they are and love them in their crookedness. In that same, poetic way beautiful things never end the way you expect them to.

You're not the only one with holes in your heart, burying thoughts your mouth just can't bare to say.

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