If only I can erase my meta data of your identity.
The topic of you comes by here and there, and I'm silenced by the pain of revealing my pain. You arise when I least expect you to, often in bad moments. Usually, when I'm eating good. I don't let our conversation pass on. I shift my eyes and pretend to be disinterested, and start focusing on the disinteresting. Speedily making my way through piles of small talk, making sure you're tucked away in my personal folder. Even with great company, you make me feel lonely. If only I could erase my metadata of your identity.