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I guess sometimes the sky makes me feel as small as I want to feel all the time.

There’s a sort of dwindling that goes on, that turns to a trickle into ether by this time of the day, and I even let the cigarette go off on its own and stare ahead at the cranes and don’t think all that much about my own body. I know this only lasts for about 10 minutes at any given day, and I know that this kind of alone-ness is the least lonely, and I know that being alone with other people who like being alone is the most lonely, like when I come back inside and Anna and I are both perfectly content or as content as we can get living in our own rooms tap tap tapping on keyboards that never really communicate what we want to say. We know this about each other and say nothing about it.

The sky knows everything about us and can’t say a word.

I know that somewhere he is looking at the clouds too, and I know if I try to tell him what the cranes mean to me it won’t really make much sense or will sound terribly melodramatic or both and I know that he is thinking of something that I’ll convince myself is objectively more valuable than whatever I think of in these 10 minutes, and then I wonder what kind of pervasive insecurity has traveled from blood to bone and when it was birthed, what kind of bullshit happened to me that made me believe boys would always be bigger in their own brains than I could be, and that in my own I would always be bud not fully blossomed, that I would always be better never best. And the answer to this question I hate so much is that nothing has really happened to me besides what I did to myself, besides the sort of havoc I wreaked on my own body, besides what I let other people, what I all but encouraged other people to do to me. And I can look at the sky again and remind myself or fool myself that this is all so much stronger than me, that I am but an animal, that I am but brick and broken stone just doing my equally futile part in this pointless wall, that I am but light compiled yet dull, that I am but fragments held together by forged force of will. But the truth is I am not just but I am everything before it and this truth seeps out in little pools of toxic guilt just like the thoughts of him over there across and around and inside the ether seep in. And I know I can circle around like this forever but in the end even my thoughts will leave and it will just be my body on this rough brick, watching the clouds get covered by cranes.

But maybe that’s all fine because the cranes look pretty. The cranes and the clouds look so pretty. And I can just lay here and feel pretty too.