Make like an arrow and miss
your target. This life has more
to do with dying and it's all starting
to make my head spin. The deep brown
African holds open the door with his
head bowed as though my presence
absorbed his dignity. I doubt he
know how little self-respect
I possess and I won't let it
show. Sometimes I'm so low that the
chemicals on the ground break me
down into limitless questions or
parenthetical exclamations. I
always wake up feeling exhausted...
My dreams revolve around
a lack of your eyes and my waking
hours are a constant search for
you. Even my writing is
everything I unintentionally say to you.
Human longing
contorted me into it's well
utilized vessel the day
you forced me to let go of you in a dark
parking lot that I can't help but
remember. Constantly, constantly. And
just as I begin to strut confidently
through the door that the discarded
foreigner is holding, the memory of you
weighs my head down to his level.
We make eye contact and briefly
find ourselves to be overwhelmingly
symmetrical.
