October 14th. Or maybe it’s just the time the neon bleeds into the puddles. I don't know what day it is anymore; the dates are always written on surfaces that are too bright to read. It’s been three cycles since the shape slipped away. I remember the precise angle of the afternoon sun on the pavement, the way my edges used to soften around the knees of your jeans. Now, I am just a residue, a stain of darkness that refuses to dissipate. The city is loud. It’s a thousand overlapping signals—the hum of the subway, the sizzle of street food, the relentless, high-pitched whine of the advertising signs. They paint everything in violent, beautiful colors: electric blue, acid green, hot magenta. I used to be defined by the curve of your back, the slight, familiar bend of your elbow. I was an extension, a perfect negative space. Now, I am loose. I stretch across the wet asphalt, a useless, meandering thing. I follow the feet of passersby, but I don't belong to them. They walk with purpose, with defined destinations, and I am merely a smudge, an accidental pooling of night. I keep looking for the right host—the right silhouette that will allow me to settle, to feel that satisfying, anchoring weight of belonging. Someone whose rhythm is steady enough to hold me, whose life is complex enough to give me interesting edges. I just want to be defined again. I want to be necessary.
flicker · tender