Until it Isn’t, Anymore

I’m looking at my reflection splayed against the glass like I’m not even really here. The sky is this strange shade of sunken violet, like grape Kool-Aid, or half past eight—I watch the cars driving past with people in them who have places to be, or places they’ve been, blurred out against existence like a string of fairly lights laid out across the street, and I’m stuck in the

sudden revelation that the only noteworthy thing I’ve done all day was decide to drag my blanket downstairs, to sit in this chair, and stare out this window. I’m listening to music that reminds me of 2006, mixed with the sound of some stranger, stumbling over Für Elise for the fifth time, as if he’s never even met Elise, as if he didn’t care. I wonder if a lot of things are like that—they matter some way until they don’t anymore; a song is a song about a girl, until it isn’t anymore— until it’s just a set of notes on a page. People can go ahead and put together the pieces of a puzzle with the picture upside down, they’ll still slide into place with the same glossy snap, but the box bears no resemblance. And no one even notices, when meaning finally fades enough that what’s left behind is just a reflection, on glass, spread out against a Kool-Aid sky so sweet it makes your teeth hurt, until it doesn’t.

Until not even the ache remains.

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