The tube becomes a greenhouse and manners melt. I still put product on. Looking done is how I refuse to let London see me wilt.
Year: 2022
Money gone to be ignored faster. I called it efficiency. It was loneliness with a receipt. The app took payment. It did not take me.
Week one he sent paragraphs and playlists. Week two he sent k. That is not passion. It is a highlight reel before the beige flags.
No eye contact. Fast feet. A whole argument finished before my stop. This city is rude and useful. It lets you disappear while staying public.
Believe the first draft. Not ready means not for you, not right now, not ever with anyone who asks for a Saturday in public honestly.
Same kitchen. Same oat milk. Then a rose on the app. The house became an incubator with worse lighting. I shut the fridge, considered leaving.
We looked tight in the picture. On the platform it went quiet. That is the comedown. The story goes on the grid. Silence comes home.