Your typos as mine: rushed thoughts, backspace, backspace, still wrong, still sent. Did he see that emoji?
Each trauma dump as my own inventory of damage. We compare scars like receipts, IOUs we wrote ourselves that you’re somehow cashing in.
Your defensive laugh, the same one I used when someone got too close to the soft parts.
This daily spiral as two people circling the same drain are calling it vibing.
I catalog your flinches as blueprints: this is where you might pull away when I become more than notifications, less than 250 miles, more than someone who can’t hurt you separated by that much turnpike.
Then again, I’m fluent in red lines, and was never following the plans, or directions anyways.