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It’s a Tuesday. You sit cross legged on the floor before me, hunched over a piece of paper. Your glasses slip down your nose, and you shove them up impatiently. Like I do.  The paper bleeds your messy scrawl. Equations and arrows looping back on themselves, as if chasing their own tails. Tuesdays are for Economics. Your subject. You’re convinced it’s mine too. It isn’t, but I can pretend.  For a moment, it’s almost sweet, this mirroring. The way you chew your lip when thinkin

You can’t put a definitive on anything dead. I know that, I know. We have giant question marks at the end of every sentence and learn every movement our muscles make when rolling the word ‘unknown’. May be, presumably, allegedly, thought to. Apparently, seemingly, maybe so. But I want them to know. When centuries in the future they’ll maybe find what I wrote, I want them to be sure it was not brotherly love that I was hunching over a page for, tear stains and left-handed smud

ring ring I sit And stare at the ceiling ring ring Waiting, waiting. Hoping, just hoping ring ring That maybe you stop what you’re doing, and ring ring think about me, the way I think about you. I force my head into my pillow hoping that maybe I’ll stop  breathing Either way, I don’t seem to hold any purpose without you. ring - Then silence. That familiar voice echoes in my ears. The number you have dialled is currently busy. Please--    8 words, so common, so Seemingl