I scream and rage and want the world to burn
because you are not mine.
Seven days removed, I take the same deal and hope
for the world to end.
The pain is the same and I live the days and
misfortune over.
I live the stupid shitty, fuck fuck, shitty, how the FUCK,
why, how could I have been
That out of touch when you needed me absent.
Signals. Neutered
for your own good, in retrospect did you want?
From the start, impossible.
Yes, I remember how we met. I wanted to know
everything about you.
I still do. Lines in the sand. We were on different
paths the whole way.
Can you imagine our conversations now that we
know what we know?
I doubt we'd get along now for more than a few days.
Development. I lied.
We would. I would. I still crack empty jokes
because there is a little bit
of your voice inside me, refusing to die. Weird
is what you call a pigeon
that has one foot, chilling out on an exhaust grate
in Manhattan like you
are the one who interrupted its day.
I suppose one of these
days I will settle down and saw someone to bits
out of boredom
after several dozen years of faking it to
make life easier.
I will keep in touch, in case you do the same.
The letter will have
no return address, but its contents will be a series of
tests to be sure you are
who the person who opens the envelope is.
On down the road.
One of these days I will stop sawing myself to pieces
to help me remember
the day I knew the family photo had me in it
kind of.
