his head tips,
his hand still soothing his chest.
“You really do care ‘bout me, huh.”
A statement neither of us have yet to fathom.
And in his eyes? A whole goddamn mixtape of emotions on shuffle.
I can’t catch all of it,
but I can feel every track.
“Then tell me somethin’, Sonny,” he says.
“You still usin’ him?”
“Who?”
It comes out as a reflex.
Like when they say ‘Bless you,’
you say ‘thank you.’
When they say‘You still usin’ him,’
you say‘who?’
And my heartbeat’s doing a slow clap.
Andrew cocks a brow,
the hollow smile stretching late.
“Who? Who else, Son?”
He throws a hand down the street,
like he’s gesturing to Ben.
“After seein’ me tonight, if it hits you later… is it him still takin’ care of it?”
No, Andrew. I haven’t used Ben in two weeks.
Because I can’t. Because of you.
But this confession doesn’t let me sleep.
It claws at the mattress,
pulls the sheets down,
rattles the windows.
It fucks with my head,
my heart,
