We're cutting it close if we wish to meet before the last midnight of the year. Should I be in a brand new bar, sitting golden scarecrow style on a stool not far from yours? Or will we find ourselves wandering around the same public sculptures on a day when art becomes as common as the crowds surrounding it?
Maybe we'll both be caught stealing menus from a restaurant upon noticing an alien language listed between the appetizers. If you're eating dinner, then I'll be eating lunch. Or perhaps our circles of friends will cross at some party where the host keeps bubble gum in a dish, trades keepsakes with their neighbors.
You'll be the first guest to arrive, waving your cigarette like a wand, discussing what is more difficult: starting a new job or starting a new relationship. The stripes in my adidas will match the stars in your witch-knit hat.
But who knows? You may have a romantic apocalypse to deal with of your own, more than one place you call home, and no matter how many probabilities I create, the odds of you finding me, or me finding you, are equally offensive.
However, I wrote this because I knew you'd read it and I wanted proof that I'd been paying attention to the signals you send me through the eyes of other girls, the tenderness when you kiss me with my lover's lips.
nth
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