The mental image of him in the distance, papers in hand, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. The fraction of a smile aimed in my direction and the feeling that I hadn't been reduced to shivers. Him sitting, then standing, then walking away with just a two-fingered salute to service a goodbye. That film on replay as I stood by the crack of the door, peering in as they kept each other warm by a fire only they could feel.
The mental image of her, trudging through the hallways, dragging her feet, soaked from the downpour and smiling all the while at all the no one's paying attention. The offer of a friendship shot in my direction and a nagging feeling that she would leave me bare. Her mumbling, then laughing, then talking our time away in a waste of well-allotted time. That film on replay as I missed her breathing, dreaming in a room as vacant and as solitary as I always wished I'd never be.
Us on an index card? We're a bit unstructured and vague, and lined and charted and drawn, but not really. We're distant, but only to an extent; and vulnerable, but only enough to be friends. We're there, but only by a finger.
Us on an index card? We're folded and our creases are rather worn, and the edges are a bit frayed. We've been in each other's pockets too many times. We're the back-up back-pocket dynamic that gets pulled out when there's not enough entertainment to pass the time, and no other shoulders to soak up the restless.
Title: Folkin' Around - P!ATD
