“I don’t care that you’re coming back.” I write to you as you describe the train tracks.
“I could care less.” I admit, shrugging, as you pull into the station.
I text you pictures i drew of you as a stick figure
with snot running down your nose and an arrow shooting through you.
when you compliment the likeness of your portrait,
i tell you im in class and i cant talk; im busy studying.
“I’ll see you, but only as a friend.” I grumble,
in a nightmarish vision of myself, falling.