Misfits #2: out of sorts

I stut­ter and tumble over the words. There’s noth­ing strange about you. Noth­ing strange about me. We’re just like each other. Peas in a pod. Hand in glove. Birds of a feather. What am I say­ing? Link fin­gers and dance with me, why don’t you?

I feel everything when you’re broken, just as you do when I am. You sat up with me while I frantic­ally painted a door at three in the morn­ing, just because I had to. I sat up with you while you didn’t sleep to avoid the night­mares, just because. Admit­tedly, we were sep­ar­ated by eight hours and thou­sands of miles, but that seems a mere mat­ter of time divided by dis­tance when our hands are grip­ping the ledge.

This won’t last, you know. I give it no longer than forever, plus a few days. Maybe. If we’re lucky.