keep to this weird memory of the golden kid i seemed to be at this time one week ago, where he went and why I made him leave-it was surely some sort of something at it's peak; the way they all flocked to me; I didn't like it then, for I knew that sickness would steal the appeal that had brought everything to me soon-that grey would drain the colour from me all too soon, and the one they all seemed to respect so much would be something I could only be momentarilly; a night at best..and in this rest, and reflection I am so aware of the confidence that is lacking...the search for meaning continues, and without a project to keep my thoughts centred I am lost and losing sight of self-and losing grip on the tiny thread that hold arrogance in its proper place so to let a little bit of narcissism show upon this face....
I long to be seen by you-somewhere bright when I am healthy; the ones I never want to see me always do; and its you I wish to witness me while I stroll by unknowingly-why must she be the one who speaks to me now as I would speak to you; I have never seen the need for scratching my name into a place where so many others have already carved in their ugly shapes-she is a picnic table in a public park, and I long to carve my name in a tree somewhere off in the woods; thats what you sort of seem like to me...but how could I tell this to her without seeming so rude...

Nothing interests me really-there is so much to see through, yet i long for something as shallow as to simply be seen by you; the one I can already see through; perhaps why I don't wish to see you; and only wish to be seen. Without words you might understand how I feel about your presence; only in socializing do I feel so inclined to make you think I think of you, I care for nothing-and the thought of her pressed in the grass under another bothers me little these days. I don't think of sex in the same way; she no longer belongs to me, and I no longer to her-I look for pictures of pretty unknown things and this city has little to offer me.
I roll to the bar as thirsty as ever-as socially uneasy as ever...the blonde bartender waves at me, perhaps only because I'm a regular, but she's always seemed a little sweet on me, and I her, but that's all that will ever come of this, a look in the eye when I leave her her a tip, and quiet 'thank you' unheard amidst the obnoxious chatter of 20 year olds who think the best way to get drunk is to be as grabby and ugly as possible.
We sit at a table, and I listen to older boys make jokes to compensate for their lack of courage-filthy jokes about murdering girls and eating assholes-as if such rancor could prove to somebody the words to remind us all that they still have an active sexlife-blatant oogling that never leaves its seat for anything more than a look up a skirt; it all sort of sickens me and the sitdown humour strikes me as somewhat pathetic when all you'd have to do is just talk to her; tasteless.
I continuously try to return the conversation to matters that interest my sincerity-where people work, projects they're working on, one of them has a 3 and half year old son...and I intentionally return to such matters despite the fact that I know I'm spoiling their fun...I am the serious one at a table of laughing hyenas; I am the world's worst wingman too for I usually just sit by myself and drink drink drink in the dark while others flirt with ugly girls who need to be fucked by something every night-I look for the one who I might have a conversation with; the little sister that speaks about things that interest me but she is nowhere to be found-I by an old aquaintance a birthday round and thank time when it hits two o'clock, another night I hung on 'til the end-somehow I feel gratified as if another day of work is in the book-but this job drains my bank and I am not entirely sure why I give my love for alcohol a straw....perhaps in hopes of being seen in passing by someone I could never care about; then I might be understood in some strange way, and for some reason I long for this as of late-the most unfulfilling of relations; yet it seems more meaningful to me than sitting back in my seat and laughing at jokes...when the truth of the matter is they're all still sitting on their asses; who am I to care or to judge; we all overcompensate for some things I suppose...this goes nowhere and I am scatterbrained. ah well, the sun is shining, the work week begins all over again-unchallenging and as easy as ever for someone who knows all the ins and outs of a simple blue collar job-yet this week i find myself a veteran riding alongside somebody older than me who asks too many annoying questions...i work harder than I have so to make it seem worthwhile, sweat buckets and look skinny and trim-narcissism will be filled to the rim by the end of the week and I will still be disappointed with the looks others sometimes praise of me-all because everything still sort of means nothing to me; without your eyes, whoever you are, I remain invisible.

She said
you have
a certain way
with words
so I don’t trust you..

Well I don’t blame you
I don’t
trust
my self.

/unconsoled, lonely, so much better than I used to be.\

how then, and now, emptiness.
how much more a song can resonate within this body of mine when I've got an aching heart...every word we nod along to as if it were the description of our everyday experience..wanting to scream our anxst out into the night. but there is no way to escape the day that is always gaining on us....still drunk I wake with the sun to roam around this town bordered with beautiful fields for corpses; they save the prettiest lots for the dead, while the rest of the land here gets filled with the saddest looking sorts of structures...asquare feet and barbeques..to live out your days in the same little spot and die in comfort..not for me, not for me, none of this has ever been for me..but where.
I feel that burning in my spine all over again....and I can't help but hold onto your thought, but why do I do this?..I wonder if Augustine was right when he spoke of the perverse sweetness we enjoy when engaged in mourning...do I think of you in this sad way to basque in the poetic beauty that is the tragedy I ascribe to the storybook synthesis of memories of you and me?...am I merely a selfish, self-proclaimed protagonist enjoying the sound of his own story as the words bounce off the walls of his skull.....
Do I talk to myself, and say 'I love you' to a ghost for the sheer strange pleasure of embracing sadness to the fullest...glorifying my suffering?....NO.
I do not...there is simply too much fire in this heart of mine, words upon words pile up on top of one another as the day rolls onward and as we drive around these familiar frameworks...I miss you; what you used to mean to me..and I resent the world so bad baby. It's real and I am alone..burning and more alive I suppose....I do not glow though, for without your eyes I am invisible...
unrequited love is tough-to devote a life to one who wishes not to reciprocate-this choice becomes a scam for words the moment the hurting man picks up his pen to embark upon a life of creation....tapping into the most obvious of painful situations to bring about emotional creativity...this option is foolish-even cowardly...cliche....what hurts more is loving someone you force yourself to let go of only to remind yourself that they would've loved you forever.

The sun is shining and the heart of this city is singing...but I can only bring myself to embrace the sombre nostalgia that surrounds thoughts of Hannah. I listen to songs that confirm the sorrow that accompanies the enslaught of emotion that arises upon riding through this park-On a day as beautiful as this, around this time last year I first met her...afraid of what I saw; afraid of children for my inability to not relate to all as adults.....overwhelmed with the home my heart had chosen I was a nervous wreck.....and here I am a year later; all alone once again as if nothing had changed or happened at all in the in between days.

This is the bittersweet feeling when one can't help but open the book of memories; for only the most beautiful and meaningful are placed inside-but all photos represent moments that have past and thus moments that can never again be grasped. Thoughts of Hannah I allow myself to think today-perhaps it was this very day last year that I first met you..I do not recall the specific dates...thinking of her as I see all the little girls throwing bread crumbs at the birds..or spinning in circles...running around the trees....I think they all might be her for a split second; and there are tears; I would only want to pick her up and squeeze her; but I would have no right to even stop to say hello if I saw her-but she would say hi to me-of this I am sure....thoughts of her.. feel like looking upon photos of someone loved who is no longer alive'.... but even this description is inadequate for articulting the well of sadness that subsumes memories of our happiest moments together. How pretty the world is painted in the book of memories; it all looks so perfect from where this lonely beast stands today.
I read you stories and you leaned your head on my shoulder; how meaningless this must've been to someone still so innocent..but undoubtedly my heart was softened; days in the park when you could not contain your excitement upon seeing me...I do not know why you liked me so much; perhaps because I tried so hard...I will never pick you up again and spin you around the room; nor will I be there to hide everytime you leave the room...Cordelia said you cried for me when you were sick...I can only imagine how sad it must make her to hear you say my name....all of this seems so tragic some days. You will grow-and I will never know you again. And Cordelia-sweet Cordelia, how I feel your ache today.

I find myself in the shadow of the past that follows my present tense around. I sit in the pocket and recount all that has occured-and it is here where I wish to remain for now, tucked away in the wake of my mistakes. I feel my body underneath my skin-watching landscapes pass without focusing my eyes on any particular sights-merely taking in the green and brown; the branches that line lonely lots in long stretches of farm towns. I settle beneath and allow the surface to come to me. And there is my past, reachably embodied within me.

On these roads there is no one following, and one feels that past lives in different cities can be left behind.