She'll lie next to me and tickle her wrists with my hair. He's not my friend, after all. She kisses me and watches me dance. She is my muse. On the dance floor we press against each other. She is brash. I want to know him. He is aggressive; his glasses emphasize his frown lines. She shouts at all my friends and everyone else. He wears old woolen jumpers. We kissed again. She doesn't like it when I stroke her face but I always want to. She stamps her thick-soled shoes on the dance floor to the tempo; sometimes. They are registered at university. There is a hole in his jumper; I know where it is. He plays guitar and he sings, quietly. She loves to dance with me when there is no one else on the floor, we look good together, I think. He loves me. She's in a club, I'd like to underline my membership but sometimes I don't know what to say or I say too much.
I hope I find.
I miss him when he's not around; there are things I think we could tell each other. She blows accomplished smoke rings; I often look at her photograph. I enjoyed kissing her. She'll make you dinner; you'll like it. She likes the word "pretentious" and she pronounces all of her syllables on purpose. I want to know him. They don't see me during the week; I wish they did. She talks more than me, more than anyone I know but I don't mind, I tell people about her, I mean what I say. She is beautiful. She doesn't care. They pick their moments, never very aptly; they support each other. She is self-conscious, I read her by her facial expressions, and I read her well. He always wears that jacket. She made me a scarf and I sometimes wear it in summer, we reminisce. She is older than me; I know you wouldn't have known. They’re medicated. It was her I called when I thought I might die, it was.
Been hoping for a fresh... with that acquaintance.
He secretly loves her; he wishes it wasn't a secret. He always ends up sitting in that same seat in that same position, I don't know why. If I am to die, she has plan. She's the same as me. She hardly ever wears underwear. They have STI's; he doesn't care. She goes shopping for me. She smells antique. I think I will tell her things that I have not told anyone else. He doesn't know that I know; maybe he does. He chokes me.
To be taken by surprise. Take what I want, to be awarded a prize or even recognize a prize.
I sit next to him and her and him and her and her when I feel lonely. He admires me. He is trustworthy and loyal and good and I think he could be my best friend. He's a show off but he knows it! He embitters me, makes me jealous and makes me doubt myself. They all said they loved me once. She inspired me and to think of those nights in the smoke fills me with hope and pride. She speaks in stirring phrases; she wears cheap clothes, they look tacky, she is earthy; she is dirty; it doesn't matter. I regret some of what I said to him. I kiss her because she wants me to. I'd wed her. She is black and white and sometimes red - often red, in fact. I don't know him. To me, she is sex. She changed my life. He stares at me when he thinks I can't see, I don't know why, I'd like to. I think we should have been lovers. Sometimes he sickens me. She is my best friend. She invited me in before I knew her; I'd like to repay her. She listens to me like I listen to her; I wonder if she knows I'm not listening. She never gave me a chance; maybe she will, I don't care. I don't see enough of her; I can see enough of him. She's a great partner. I hope she knows. She is her own contradiction. He is over confident; I mean arrogant. He keeps coming back; or maybe I do. I borrowed his jumper once.
Do you know them?