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For the Anxious

When you lay your body down, and sigh a sigh that’s almost manly if you’re a woman, but so sexy, or hyper manly if you’re a man, but so sweet, after eating ground beef, or just being tired regardless of eating the aforementioned ground beef, sometimes you clear your throat a bit with a guttural gurgle and then, immediately, you slowly breathe out of your noise a pine tree winter wind whoosh that frightens my skin.

You rest with such confident and selfish-in-a-good-way eyes that possess a supreme level of non-self awareness, which could be you simply not giving a fuck, that rattles my brain. 

You don’t even look at me with dog-eyed approval eyes, like I look at you in the morning when I have a stack of papers in my hand.

You don’t even turn around, like I do when I step on the leaves that crunch loudly.

You don’t even turn the locks three times (once to lock, twice to lock check, three because it’s the magic number, baby!)

You stare at your darkened eye lids in a rural basement, living life for yourself, while I crash into endless neon invisible mirrors on brick city sidewalks adorned with microscopes on each brick that have immense gravitational pulls.

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