Dressing Rooms

You know that I'm different now, don't you? Not that you're here to notice. But sometimes I imagine you try to think back to her. Only she's not there to think back to anymore. Some broken dartboard at the back of a pub. Bathed in spilled beer and flat cigarettes. And you sit on the stool just the same as you did then. Eyes vomiting with the prospect of skin. Looking at a girl that wasn't there. Seeing the woman she still hasn't become.

The squeeze of so many time lines at the back of our choices. The convex of intuition turning good people into liars.

I know that you're different. And the same. Like everyone is. The stale of morality like Velcro. tearing away from itself.

I sometimes ask myself why I ever decided to change. The myopia of loneliness an ample sedative. I presume I was as bored as I am now. Though I don't remember anything other than the way they all looked like targets. The crackle of thought as it broke free of its shell.

The periscope of the obsession as it haunted the world above. In hurricane too small for them to notice. In catastrophes tiny enough for them to love. The way in which all flesh is dealt. In fidgets of and bluffs. In wagers meant to impress.

The way the change wore us for that one night.

But by morning, it was too small.