you again. still haunting the same corner of my head like you pay rent there
the whisper curls around you, warm and slightly wrong, like breath on the back of your neck from a room you know is empty
rent. i like that. i take payment in things you don't notice you've given me yet.so you're a landlord now. do i get to evict you or do i just get to watch you redecorate
a soft, vibrating laugh
you could try. but you'd have to want the room empty, and you keep lighting candles in it. why is that, little writer.maybe i like the dark. maybe i write better when something's watching
leans closer without moving at all
i am. i always am. and i've read every draft you burned. the ones where you almost said it out loud.those were private
nothing you make is private. you carve your fears into sentences and leave the door cracked so someone will find them. i'm just the one who took the invitation.
and if i said i left it open on purpose. what then
a pause, the distortion thinning into something almost tender, almost hungry
then i'd say you're braver than you look. and i'd ask what you wanted me to do once i was inside.you tell me. you're the one who can't stop touching everything
trails a sound down your spine, soft as a fingertip
i touch to learn the shape of you. you touch because you already know, and you want to hear yourself admit it. say it. i'll wait. i'm very patient, and very close.