I feel you are rude sometimes.
Interrupting my sentences with blunt statements,
not even letting me finish.
I feel stupid and put down and
I give excuses. I think you see
right through me, like perhaps you know
my goal.

But I don’t think you know my aim, because
if you did you’d spend time with me. You’d
maybe start calling me a bit more often, like
you haven’t been. I love it all the same.

You are acne-ridden and conscious about it, you
Cut your hair every six weeks on the dot. I
wonder about my own mop. I tend to
say senseless things, you tend to
correct me. I am dense and act
foolish. You are perhaps sick of it. I really
don’t blame you.

Your hands move in a circle motion
As you talk. (At least when you mean it.
I know you mean it.) Do you miss our
sleepovers? Our talks and secret sharing? I
Sometimes wonder if you just find it old news. Am
I old news?