I don't usually mean what I say. I usually mean what I write even if the meaning doesn't make sense anymore. This is a tomb. The bold statement or rather blatant excuse of believing in epicurus isn't really offering a rational form of salvation. How easy it is to lie. To pretend. To lie. lie lie LIE. Broken hearts aren't new. I shop to keep myself busy. While I am listening to you tell stories in the dark half awake and laughing until my cheeks turn pink I am trying to fight the urge to throw up. Reading on the bus and I'm trying to fight the urge to throw up. Drinking too much coffee and I am trying to fight the urge to throw up. Maybe all we need is a little shut eye. A little closed heart and it's really nothing more than body on body. I hope I don't ever become as lonely as you. You are everything I hate but everything I turn to when I am once again between the brinks of self-sufficiency and self-hate. Maybe I don't want to be specific. Maybe I don't have to explain that permanency never lasts longer than two months in my books. When I believe turns into why the fuck am i here. maybe i don't have to write a fucking mile about how this really isn't anything other than a two syllable word. There's no magic. There's no magic. There's no fucking magic.


I guess I care about my hair and shoes so much, because I have nothing else to care about. You are too removed to care and I am too removed to listen. I don't care enough to take anything to heart. You care too much about takings things to heart.


It doesn't really come to much. I am not broken and not lost and not unforgiving. Maybe all I really need is a good drunk story, and maybe a good sleep without the aches and pains of vindication and verification.

The sleeping portraits take two.


I am watching you disappear behind all things we vowed to rip apart. Clenched fists and tight hearts. Closed eyes and everything is like kissing with your eyes open with you now. You are everything I avoid when I am timid or angry or frustrated. April tenth and I broke you. I hate your pretending. You symapthize with mine. I miss you to death. I hate your X's and O's and I hate your loneliness. Oh my god, I'm sorry. All this screaming only comes out as hushed whispers. Sigh. I only miss you late at night in front of computer screens and bleeding ink. Whatever you said you hope for, you forget. I guess your mission was skewed. Maybe this huge detour will lead to the beginning again, but I guess if you've ever taught me anything it is to expect less.

Sometimes coincidences are just coincidences.
Right place. Right time.
Wrong place. Wrong time.

Who knows.
I guess in the end it doesn't really make much of a difference.
It's nothing phenomenal anyways.
I guess I shouldn't take it so personally.

I feel so antsy.
Like it's the calm before the storm.
Like everything will blow over. All of a sudden. And we will be caught in a whirlwind of everything we used to be so fond of and look forward to.

I am so tired. Of saying the same things over and over again. I wish I was still in love with things I used to really love doing and people I used to really like seeing.


I think I just need to have lunch with a really good person to talk to.

+++++


I guess you got me.
I miss it.
A lot.
And i think
I'd give almost everything.
To get back the feeling
of running through dark alleys
to go home with you.
Holding hands and screaming
like every step was our last breath.
And lying on the hot sand in the summer.
Not really feeling the need to take note
of wandering eyes.
Just lying there. Trying to find clouds in a cloudless sky.
Like finding something to hold onto in dead relationships.
And you say. It'll be the same
When we see each other again.
But I say it won't.
Because I know good things don't really happen twice.
So I guess you got me.
I don't want to grow up. I don't want to leave you. All I really want to do is swing on swings with you and talk about the things.
And I want to walk through parks and to bus stops and train stations, while reassuring ourselves it really isn't that big a deal.
And I want to get giddy. About all the useless things.
I don't want to go to parties and drink liquor to break the tension.
I want hot pot on halloween. And summer nights.
Gambling with water on the porch.
Thinking we are mature because we know people.
And opening up is when you get a picture in your wallet.
Not after years and years when you finally see me cry
and try to laugh it off. Again and again. Until I am a mess.
And I want all the solutions to our problems.
To be fistfights and bickering.
I don't want to have to go on and off again for you to notice me.
Lying through closed lips now lying through barred teeth.
Shy boys. Boys who don't know any better than to be nice.
Girls. Without the big hair. Makeup. And egos.
Kisses on the cheek. Sleeping in snow behind our castles of snowforts.
Not passing out behind the couch beside the garbage can.

Pretending to be grown up.
Is a lot different from growing up.

I wish it was raining right now.

I am sorry things turned out like this.

I don't know what to say anymore.

Give me a straight answer with a straight face.