It’s a bottle of champagne that just couldn’t wait for the big occasion. It’s a spur-of-the-moment thing, a temporary thirst-quencher. A pop, a splutter, then gone. It’s an apology without reason, like talking for the sake of hearing your own voice, like skimming a paragraph without really reading it, forgetting the last word once you’re onto the next. It’s a chapter, not a narrative. It’s a page at random, with a rushed beginning and an abrupt end. It’s punctuated; short-lived.
Afterwards, you’re spent out, returning with just yourself to a lonely home. You may not see it but either the space around you grows or you become smaller each time, as if worn from misuse. Fingers traced and left no marks though you could’ve sworn they burnt your skin. Pupils darkened and saw nothing but pulsing red. It’s a red that can’t stay fresh, like blood. You’ll be forgotten soon but you’ll do the same because it’s standard procedure. No one complains (it’s not like you’ve lost a friend). You witness hurricanes that leave no impression and are enslaved by fast-fading novelty. Sooner or later you’ll want to know what it’s like to be damaged well and truly, for substitutes can’t satiate.