i forgot about how you sucked at my skin on the train tracks and said, i can't do this, i have to leave

it just turned sunday and you're lying in bed while they all drive elsewhere, home or places you don't want to be but would if you were braver, or bigger, or more. instead you're wishing your bed weren't so fucking big, or empty, or fuck it, both, because it's been awhile and you just want another pair of arms to augment your own. but the room smells funny, or maybe its just you, drenched in soap you never quite washed off, because it didn't matter and despite the pulled pork brought to you by housemates you were lonely. lonely enough to feel it here, in your bed, in the aching hand that wont quite do its duty underneath the bed clothes (the porn is stale and empty under backlight on your hard drive, too much so). so you lie listless and think of him, who you left and who left you, a thousand times in a row you left each other mostly on strange notes, but whose children you can already see running with their cousins under big sky, and it makes you sick but you can't stop seeing the family you'll become because you're lying alone under a comforter you father bought you and
god damn