Arcadia

30

- I feel so dry. So dead. Unpoetic as fuck.

- I know. Summer was a big brown stench but I was beautiful back then, blinded as we were by the yellow. I don't feel beautiful anymore.

- I hate it here. I want to go back. Go home. I just want to stop existing for a year or something.

- I know. I lack the poetry to console either of us.

- It's so bright here. The lights, they are too bright. They seep under my skin.

- I thought it would get better with the rains.

- Rains spell poetry, don't they? Well, not for us, it seems.

- We believed in so many little dreams. We were two birds made of stardust, of love talks and spilled poetry.

- We are left with their ghosts now. The shadows of what was once was.

- I want to love again.

- Back home, the lights were always so dim, the kind you get in a rented flat. The light never got through because of all the dirt around the tube. No one got it cleaned. And yet. I just realized how much of a home that was, and this isn't.

- You could turn them off.

- I could turn them off. I would, if I wasn't so scared of the dark. It's so easy to sink into. So tempting. You can't see the shape of your body. Too real. Too free. There's no escape.

- Don't be suicidal.

- Why do we treat suicide like a sin anyway?

- Because, it is tempting. And anything that is tempting is a sin.

- I miss the mess I never felt obliged to conform to.

- I miss the mess too.

- I am sick of the organized spaces, of the white. It chokes me, makes me stand out. Makes me small.

- We have dried up, haven't we?