Is that my copy of Lolita?

It's me and you, Futon of Death. We sit here alone in the room, sans rug, and torture each other with our inability to be forgiving.
Why submit? In hopes that maybe I'll be discovered on the diner-stool of life, in some obscure Seattle hideout, belting out my life story on a MacBook.
I don't even have a Mac. I'm not part of that club, either.
So, what do i submit, then?
More cliche notions of how I got to be so fucked up and jaded? How about some random story about how my life ended up with me sitting in a cubicle next to "sullen CAD guy," plotting our next rubberband-slinging session.
Once in a while, I catch him looking over at me.
I wonder if he's judging me, if he's thinking about how he could possibly push me down the 10 flights of fire escape without getting caught.
Here's my life. Here's me without my words, without my saddle, without my subtlety, still listening to records alone in my room, me and my thin futon.
So, what do I write about anymore?
Do I write about the divorce? It wasn't my intent to be jaded.
The rug hasn't quite been pulled from under my Allstars yet, so maybe I'm still standing, firming my grip on the fringe.
My books were packed for me. Was it because the collar of my coat was scented with aftershave?
"New Year's Eve. Something changed. I noticed it. Sure, you'd just snorted a bunch of drugs, but something had changed."
"What?"
How could he possibly know this. My heart is never on my sleeve.
"I think someone kissed you on New Year's Eve. It wasn't me. I think someone kissed you and you knew, then. You knew what was coming. You knew."
"Maybe I did."
Rewind.
Three hours earlier I had, indeed walked into that party looking for someone.
That someone ended up not leaving my side. That someone is literally, always
at my side.
So what do I write about?
"Womanhood suits you."
Fifteen years later I hear this.
Fifteen years after we tried to stand so tall against skyscrapers we would never move, not even in our Doc Martens.
We stood facing the exit door, clawing at the night air with our bare hands, tearing it away from our faces.
We couldn't grow up, not now. We couldn't not live this moment.
We couldn't leave until we heard those songs.
Now, I hear those songs in my sleep. I hear them speaking under the guise of breath, from across the room, from the MacBook of someone who never left my side.