You are my drug.
A famous poet misses his words; a fellow player loses his marbles. Already past their prime and hoping to die, before we turn all their work into a crime.
Of course it would be awkward. Why would it not be? The hunter has just become the hunted and the unseen is now even more unheard of. It is a disappearance not worthy of a magic trick, in a realm of the shadow and the fake.
Take one step forward, only to get left three steps behind. A move unequivocally unfair as this may turn it all into a disgrace, even as we tread on windowsills and exchange numbers and pills.
The crux of the matter is this: no one cares about us anymore. It is now more of you and less of me, with the spotlight diligently hovering only over you, much like a city bee’s clandestine relationship with the colour blue.
Perhaps a day will come again when we find ourselves colliding like angels dizzying up the stratosphere. And then we shall know just how deep of a hole we have dug ourselves into this time.