There was a time I would chase you.
One where I’d want to win so much I’d fold all my pieces I can tell you would adore before peacocking around in displays of a lesser love.
I’d flirt like an Eames Era harlot, victim, or assassin depending on the best to suit you.
These falseness fangs allude me most days now.
More human than ever.
And it just doesn’t interest me really. Not quite like getting to know someone’s bones or celebrating their victories over their loses.
It’s left me on other planets.
Or swimming in tesseracts far from the fingerprints of such a vain instant gratification world.
Left me in such solitude, I already so greatly admire and adore, I may just dissipate much like I appear.
So I leave it to everyone else to ask about what they need to know about me before just flittering back to the places stars are born.
I used to care about this more too.
I’d feel bad about owing someone something for their time or attention.
But it’s beyond me lately.
It’s my hair I’m growing to several feet of length for other dues or dedications.
It’s the only thing I can do after work for other people anymore.