Laura Santa Monica

I sat behind you at this concert. You were a dancer. You did ballet. It seemed far too refined for me. You bought me a hula dancer for my car. You thought about me outside of our interaction. I suppose that was good.

The hula dancer was horribly inappropriate, but I wanted to fuck you, so I didn’t say anything.

Imagine flashbulbs going off. Life is that. What do you remember? A flash? Love at a moment? Love ends. And then what?

The way we deal with the way love folds our clothes. It puts things in their places.

Lost. It’s hard to find the bathroom.

Love works separately from how you’d prefer it to work. It’s a worm that squeezes to fit the empty spaces. Lost is lost. Love is not different. Love only hurts a little less because there was something. It’s gone. There wouldn’t be a question, if there was one. It’s gone.

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