I would come and find you
but I can’t bring myself to smile
I would come and see you but
only if you promised we didn’t have to speak
I would come to listen with you
to the turning of the fan
I would try to help you but
I think I’d just make it worse
I would try to say I’d loved you
but my eggs are getting cold and you’re reading the newspaper
I would tell you I’m in the parking lot watching a flock of twenty three starlings but you wouldn’t really care
The sunset is blocked by a Chevrolet Tahoe, and our
plan of going nowhere,
It’s in the subtext.
All the things people have been suspicious
about but never had
the chance or nerve to ask.
Like looking as a book and reading automatically.
Closing your eyes to what’s not there.
My life has been a paradox; I’m
Potentially smart enough to do anything, but I continue this cycle of treating every new place like it’s a hotel room.
Temporary. Dreaming ahead to what it’ll look like. My life.
I won’t be here for much longer.
In fact, I’m already long gone.
1000 square feet.
No closer to the goal of my imagined self.
You see, none of this matters as long as
It’s only me I’m fighting with.
No one to share in the small things.
Which lead to disappointment and loneliness.
The suffering is great and wide, worsened by it’s self-infliction.
I’m tired of being unable or unwilling to come to terms with things.
I float from one thing to another, blown about by every wind.
You’d be amazed at the healing power of contact.
But only after the social hangover has left go of me.
Ask me anything.
I’m living inside one shell containing two people- a brilliant one, and a coward.
A selfish one, and one whose heart is about to burst.
Tomorrow will be different.
I hope. But I’m not sure.
None of the other tomorrow’s have been different.
I have to change my approach.
But I don’t know how.
Or rather, I can’t sit in the same room with myself anymore, wasting and hoping and wishing.
It’s in the subtext.
You’ve known all along.
I just wish that I could’ve known, too."
built in the 1950s
I thought for long minutes
about exactly what it was;
What appeared when I
closed my eyes to
what wasn’t there.
It wasn’t the cottony numbness
that wraps through the rooms
when I’ve said too much to
too many people.
It was the core of what I missed
Not the speaking. Not the working.
Just being around in the same room.
It’s the different kind of productive nothing,
and how I’d rather do nothing with you
than something with anyone else."