by Sine Qua Non
We talk about nothing, really. Uninteresting stuff maybe. Things that only seem funny to retards with the hearts of five-year-olds like you and me.
Cool cat, I try to fight it, I do. But my heart jumps, races — so much so that I need speed bumps — at the mere prompting of lil’ ole you.
(My face flushes, warms up, sickening fuzz, at your memory; I smile to myself again, die a little more again.)