Getting Sick Again

by Sine Qua Non

Now, this is bad.

Nope, I still haven’t stopped asking myself the questions. And yes, it is still funny. And not even the giddy kind of funny. It’s all just funny funny. Because maybe it’s really all just a joke. An exchange of high-fives and malicious banter and that’s it. Nothing more. Except that there are silent wishes and hopes I whack myself on the head for.

You fall short by leaps and bounds. But each time you miss the score, I begin to tear the rulebook piece by piece. Do I wish I didn’t? I wish that I wished I did.

So who’s confused now?

There is some change here somewhere. In the number of entries that chronicle maladies of desire. Do you see it? I hear it. I could definitely hear the lack of slick romance, the absence of fantasies shrouded in satin and lace. Nobody’s editing it out, it’s just not there. Is there no need for it anymore? Maybe. Or maybe not. It just isn’t there. Not quite there. Yet.

Well, not yet.

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