My entire life has been informed by the absent space between us; not the physical space but more the way I succumb desperate to the craving for distance. Strolling, vapid seeing nothing but a way past. The pervading eyes and I am (smiling) seeing the space close in around me. I’m a shell. Inside a buzzer goes off to clench my jaw, to tighten my shoulders. The way there was once twenty feet between us. To suck in my waist and to walk straight, don’t fall but I am picturing something or just ticking like that. The way you tic from nerves and I looked too gaily upwards. Maybe a pleasant thought crossed me. Suddenly there was ten feet (I am smiling), then five, then one foot and then a ubiquitous hand on my shoulder, on my middle back, my lower back and “you’re too pretty …” falls from the sky. (I am still smiling) and the way they trail their fingers further down. But in a huddle. They are all in a huddle. So many of them.
It is important they tell me I am too pretty to frown.