This is me being cynical and scared of my imagination.
Cause I’ve played us in slow motion in one million futures, and in all of them, there’s you.
Cause I’ve been trying to find meaning in all corners. I’ve also checked under the table. You left no clues. No traces.
(Your silence is too loud)
Why is it there’s a gallery of us in my head if you have always been busy being make believe?
How’s that insatiable appetite? You still want to bottle me up?
I imagine you imagining me in that dress. Do I still make you feel that way?
I’m playing the fear I’ve felt when I realized there’s nothing but none nonsense scenes of you and me. I replay all of those scenes in my head and I’m seeing all I don’t have.
Should I get used to that?
Stop judging me with your inner voice. I’m done doing that.
See? This is me being cynical. Let’s not be scared of our imagination.
(I share dialogues with myself with a lot of parentheses and suspension points)