Twin Shit

How is that you make me smile at my phone like a complete fool?

With miles and moons between us, we joked how we could be twins with our like taste in music and video games and movies and stories and everything else.

When you snapped me a picture of *Arizona*, I laughed aloud and sent you one back, twin shit.

When you said you were listening to Ari’s new album, I sent you a recording of “Worst Behavior,” twin shit.

When we’d finish each other’s sentences —the endless conversations we’ve had where we ended up cracking up over voice and scrambling our keys —asdfghjklasdfghjkl— to show how ridiculously on the same wavelength we were —it was all twin shit.

When we stayed up late analyzing each other’s weird dreams and writing poetry and growing together, twin shit.

I said we could be friends because we’ve hurt each other before —when we only barely knew each other.  We’re in a delicate place and still…

I’m sick of this twin shit —I don’t want to be your twin anymore

kiss me already