I touch you on the shoulder in greeting. You don’t take note of me beyond a cursory nod.
Photons bounce off of me. You look through me.
With the folds of mucous membrane in my throat I vibrate the air. You don’t hear me, not that you’d listen.
When I sit down beside you, you move to another bench.
When I tentatively reach out my hand, you roll up the window.
When I sneeze, you don’t say, “Bless you.”
The things that interest me do not interest you.
You don’t return my calls.
When I eat, you wonder where the last slice of bread has gotten to.
When I go on trips, I come back from them. You stay here for the duration. You don’t notice that I’m gone and you aren’t surprised when I return.
When I die, you change the channel.
I will stop playing your games.
Ethan Abides 