muted

seeing stars

you drunkenly picked at a scab
that was still forming
and now you find yourself here:
sitting awkwardly across a bench;
on what feels too much like display.

just keep staring at the floor.
77...78...79..80...81...

"you look sad. what's wrong?"

"nothing."

a lie.
keep counting.

"just tired?"

"yes."

another lie.
keep counting.

"mmmmm...a mcdonald's milkshake and a cheeseburger."

is this the six hundreds
or seven hundreds now?

"you were much more fun on our last train ride home."

doesn't matter.
just
keep
counting.