You gave me my first drink, I was eight or nine, do you remember...we can't talk about it because we don't talk, because I drink...remember? I still think about you, pretty much everyday. Thinking covers a lot, so you could contest that you're no different from the other portions of slop that pass through my head. You're not dead, neither am I? It's not sad or melodramatic, histrionic or in any other way morose. Becoming enraged with a world that leads you to believe that you're not what you need or need what you're not is typically a struggle amongst most; can we have that in common? Can you and I bond? Can I miss you without you hating me for what I am? Not ignorant enough to think that you don't miss me or think in just the same manner; it is our blood that runs through us the same and something carries our thoughts. I’m caught here just where I am thinking of you, thinking of a million goddamn fucking things, does it matter? It matters, right now, maybe not now, but then…it did. I like things, dislike others….probably another thing we can talk about with each other. When will you read this? When will you know? This certain spotlight was shining for you a day, week, month, year…some fucking time ago.
a nod of acknowledgment. no further comment.
ReplyDelete