2.22

I flinched when your fingertips brushed my skin. I don't find you repulsive; I'm sorry. You're just so like me. I know I'm supposed to say you're foreign and exotic and alien because then, at least, I would have to chase you. But you're not hot to my cold, brazen to my shy, fast to my slow. If opposites attract, you make me flinch instead. I don't mean to dissect, but at the Christmas party at Ned's place, when you picked up the hors d'oeuvre with your fingers and knocked it back and laughed with a loud horse laugh at a joke I made and I laughed, myself, at my own joke. We talked about the stupid mistakes we'd made with pride and we ranted about past lovers. We're too similar.

You know that people say when you meet your unknown twin self from an alternate reality, you really only have two options if you want to truly take advantage of that moment. You only have two choices you can make that are once-in-reality possibilities. You've got to kill or sleep with yourself. It's the only way you can truly live. Well, that's why I flinched. You're too like me. I'm still deciding.