Tuesday, March 18, 2008

I said you were special-
you said you were lonely.

So I turn my eyes to the ceiling:
I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.
(But, I will. This is for you.)

I barely want to talk about anything
anymore, and I know that doesn't
qualify as redeeming, at all.
But, words, spoken words, not typed,
or even written, are the only ones
that make any sense, again.
Without them, I might as well be
tonelessly squinting into the wind,
or fluttering by light, moth-like.

One day, I was sure, if offered, I'd go back.
This is clinomorphism, without any scent, with-
out even a hint, of a simplified medical condition.

The very second I was convinced that I
was riding in the back of that taxi, to
the airport, was a falsehood. I could run
over a dissertation of them, but I won't-
BECAUSE I DON'T WANNA TALK ABOUT IT.

I will answer comments tomorrow.
I just, can't today...

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