You have the key to everything, and you aren’t afraid to wield it just in sight and just out of reach. When I met you, you drove it into my back and wound me up like I was yours — yours to command, yours to send forth. And I went forward like your soldier, feeling like nothing had fit quite like your lock pick in the base of my back. Had I known that you were a master pilot, I would have noticed that you had an army. I was just another paper airplane that you folded on the angle nobody had managed to find before. Like everyone else, I loved my new wings too much to notice where I was going. Only when you pocketed your key again did I realize that there was never a keyhole where you had made room for yourself. You left me a carved out burrow that didn’t bleed when you ripped out your key. It was a dry wound — dry like all non-commital things. I turned to look at you and thought I saw two. You had double crossed me and now there was a double of you. A dark sliver and a shining crescent that were really only two sides of the same coin. I should have turned around sooner and learned to see the part of you in shadow, underwater, the flicker, the flinch, the upturned lip on the other corner of that frown — you were smirking from the very start.