It’s tedious wading through her extravagant art. She’s a big small town writer, you know, the kind you read about in alternative weeklies North of here.
Her fancy words are as close as I’m ever gonna get, her words at arm’s length from the friendship I feel. Blasphemous words about everybody else, so she can’t see I’m drowning in the depths she’s wrought out of both of us. These useless words lay between us, a footnote in her life while I bled from the bottom up.
She’s beautiful to the world, a smooth and cold, ancient statue. To the touch, she burns the silver that comes out of mercury-filled thermometers. The one that always measured the days between my childhood and death.
Was I merely a projection of her many failed character projects? She left before I could ask.