I'm heaving. Hard jerks of ribcage and lungs intermingling in a place where skin just doesn't belong. You can pretend tomorrow, but I know today we'll never be the same because it will never be the same. I'm counting down the days, four two three, depending on every single on. Tonight I want to sleep with your ghost, know that every running joke we have will still be running in the morning-- that nothing will disappear in the night. I just need a break from change, but I'll get none of that.

Why won't you save me?

I want to be small and helpless, weak and dumb enough for you to fall in love with me, but I'm such a failure at playing these games. I'm too big and amorphous, rather a cosmos than ice planet of any sort.

I feel like I will always be the third wheel among unicycles. Irrelevance.