My Superficial
Nicole Derr

It wasn't meant as a surprise (espresso).
Arendt gave him his space, but he used his space as purgatory. He was forever entering
his own space. An eternal entering but no exits. Understandably, as an artist he could not
simply remain in his own space. But by entering anew at all seconds of the day he couldn't be a song's eternal refrain like he had hoped. He was only regenerating his liver constantly.

I hit my head on the ceiling sometimes (dizzying pleasure).
There's a mark on the ceiling where I always hit my head. Subconsciously I am aware of
this immanent danger, but I keep returning to the same spot. "And you're graduating soon? From college?" he mocked. I'm not embarrassed-usually. It's nice. "I don't let
anyone see me without makeup," she caustically returned. "I wear my malnutrition like an accessory!" In reality, he was barely able to stutter this reply, much less exclaim it. I left them with their dark secrets in order to compulsively check whether or not the faucet was turned off. It was off. And then it was off again. It was off. And then it was…

We only dream in rhyme (repression).
He suspected that I dream in rhyme. I dream in rhyme-it's true. "I cannot remember
my dreams anymore," she crooned. I robotically said the following: "The dishwashing liquid is empty." "I haven't eaten in 9 hours," he contributed.
"I really do remember many of my dreams," she later confided in me. I blushed and was in awe.

There was a time when my ears filled with fluid (sensitivity).
This is also true. I sensitized my eardrums to your humming. A lower frequency altogether, but also a real frequency. I could never reproduce its quality and I never wanted to replace its creator.