Today has been the hardest in regards to the absence of you. It's true, I'm happy, and weighing enough for once, but suns don't set downtown like they did with you. Your smoke rings glazing over days I choose to represent the year or two I spent relentless being you. And losing me in soothing truths, and inharmonic philosophic proofs. Because my first writings, however sick and sloppy, tried to dictate the dropping in of eyes and skin. I sunk and called it polished when embedded was a dialogue between your tobacco fog and a girl I lost when pretention took me out to sea and left me there with a smile: You're happy.

No, I'm not!

I dropped ten pounds and blocked a lot of things out, got it? No, you don't. And I don't either. My best friend was diseased, or is that not reason quite enough to puff this chest and call it living? Giving everything I've got to keep it in and hide each bottle full of apathy behind the mask you want of me.

(NEED A FUCKING GLASS OF WATER
SHOT OR SOMETHING
ANYTHING
ANYTHING TO MAKE ME FEEL LIKE LOVE COULD HAPPEN TO A GUY LIKE ME)

So call it bitter agonism. Risen through each reasoned crack that backs itself against a wall, it laughs at us, admits it's flaws. ow were you an eager dam that made me sick and stammering? Life is there to teach some truth, though impatiently enamoring. Fall in love to break it's waves against the rocky shore I raised. Like moses did, I part my scars and guide you through by light of stars. No ballad here at this fucking bar will let me know where the hell you are, inside of me or there, or simply in my vacant empty stares at pages. Rearranging all the sentiments.

I meant it, but my heart's a book I'm keeping. Wetting pages, ink to keep them shut.

Life was briefly a block of ice with no December light left far from it. The closest bit of heat would turn a knife it in to watch it drip so formless down from whatever shape that fate had pounded into that snow. That old season. Left out to melt like it needs a reason. I couldn't choose the shape, and no, I wouldn't try to show it, knowing all hard and scarred thing someday soften, but it's tough belief and I forget it often. So let's make excuses. Drudge them out of bedroom carpets, and know that thought is alive and well and dwelling in the parts of chests that pry us out of bed. And heads that can't and won't belong to time that we define.