bewitched.
you. you called yourself my friend? you spoke of me endlessly even before any of this. every word from your mouth fumbling over the next, grasping, gasping, for any sort of leverage, despondency, response. do you feel justified? is your heart swelling, beating with satisfaction? did a part of you warm, with your fingers tucked in folds, nails long yet barely scratching the surface when you spoke my name in disdain?

sheep.
however, i am foul to blame only you when apparently i’m on your lips. hardly the proverbial they, more the plural your. you know who you are. in my obloquy, does your tongue feel satisfied? i love how you read one page of the story and then you shut the book. how do you imagine the story?

i don’t imagine you can.
at least not the right one.

halfling.
your concept of companionship is questionable.
i enjoy how you see with one eye.
be still. your amour propre stems from your desire to be as libra; balanced. fair. the scale.
you show no signs of this.

however, regardless of such, i am less likely to bestow ill upon you.
i’ll never lower myself to your stance.
and we all know my height, i hardly mean literally, is so intricately small, it is almost mythical.

(yet they wonder why i keep my mouth shut on actual matters. what do you really know about me?
think hard.
oh wait.
the answer is-
absolutely nothing.)
enter your patterns into my absence
that is what you do.
you create your own explanations, assuming that i am a blank canvas.
do what you will, if it gets you by.

- – - -
let us repeat a new tale.
you’ll never read this anyhow.
no one reads this anyhow.
and if you do- you’ll hardly understand.
- – - -