You have really bad posture
And you go home to listen to static while hanging in your room.
I can imagine
Your back molded out to your twin size bed
And your eyelids fluttering to that fucking rancid music
Thinking about how your last one was good,
How your last meal was spicy,
How horrible that person was to you while you were at work,
and how weird it is that I even think about you
…
you probably don’t think that though
I probably never cross your mind.
Maybe I dance in your mind
Or in your kitchen
Like when we were just sitting there across from each other in chairs
Without a table between us
Clothed
Then not clothed
…
you probably don’t think that though.
And you have really bad posture.