Counting 1,
2,
3,
4 . . .
The number of friends lost and found, missing homework, homework turned in, re-runs of serial killer documentaries, how many cups line my desk, back stabbing and shit talking, key strokes, brush strokes, pieces of thread, characters, tissues; I'm keeping track of them all, almost on my tongue. They burn, the clock tolls; pillow talk. Each is un-important in their nature but they've kept me in line.
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