When I think about Arthur, it can be both so close and so distant. It is like parasitism.

Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine I am alone in his apartment; this voyueristic situation so far removed from him. It's about absorbing pieces of his life: the glow of street lights in the living room, how the tap of a moth against the window is louder than the city noise, the belief that when I step from carpet to hardwood the people in the apartment below will think I belong there.

I've also imagined myself as this thing inside of him; something gossamer wrapped around his spine, or something cold just beneath his skin. The closest we could ever be. And I've imagined myself beside him in many different ways.

But he has only spoken to me in dreams. In fantasy, I have placed my hand on his neck to feel the vibration of his voice, but he has said nothing distinguishable. So this is the end of our connection. We cannot speak to one another. There are only silent moments.

It makes sense that the cutoff is so abrupt and clear. Speaking to a parasite is like speaking to the worst part of you - a part of you that would not understand you regardless, because it is simply there to feed.