#15

Old friends, I urge to misplace you. The negative, that itch, in the pass of the wizard's wand. Beautiful suicide. As on Easter Sunday. All the cognition you carry breaking against time. The again no longer corresponding. Amity the deepest mourning. My face, unaccountable. Surprise. The past nonsense, a rend in the heart of cunning, ever personal in its reason. A telos surpassed abruptly, without fanfare or consequence. Two then, I and I, the I not even enough to refuse the two. The mammoth difference. Without even a term to situate.

Old friends, it's for you this urge. So that, sitting across from me, on a couch with a mug of milk in hand, the span would not slacken in trust. The glint of my eyes be more than the bend of light. You would stutter instead of speak, reach out as if at ghosts, become a child in tears before me. "You've changed," you'd whisper. "You've changed." And you will have changed likewise. No history left between us. No coils of pleasure entwined. You will be you again, and I me. And for the first time, we will know each other as friends.