Life cares little
for people without
stories.
No great love,
no grand calling,
no adventure, no
heroics.

Just people

knowing what they
aren't

Life never ceases
to disappoint me.
I can't even cry
anymore.

Adjusted baseline--
hell as the new normal.

I've believed in
comical things
like fate
and love
and truth.
Gibberish
to people I
would have given
my heart to.

I should have
hewed
to what I was taught--
misunderstanding,
abandonment,
rejection.

We dream
and are told
this is noble.
But dreaming
is just
one more thing
you do alone.


.

There was everything
and it was
good.

Then the door
shut
and everything
was gone.

It was only
something.

And something never seemed
so small.

I was no longer
me
and we weren't
us.

Just two people
with
something
too little,
and so all the reason
to walk away.

We walked
and
it was done.

A phone call now and then.

.

When you're not so
obviously beautiful,
winningly charming,
stunningly rich;
when all there is
to love about you
is a subtle idiosyncrasy,
how do you
ever
walk up to someone
in a bar
and get them
to care?
Why would you
even
try?

.

Feel the hole inside you.

Fill the hole
any way you can,
with whatever
you've got.

Plug the empty space.

But nothing can
arise
without a space
to rise in.

So what might you be losing?

Substitute pleasure
might erase the
possibility
of genuine pleasure.

--Maybe the hole
is where God enters.

Maybe the pain means
you're alive

and you still have
a chance.

.

All along
you were pulling
away.

That last night,

your hand
on my leg
as we rode home--

it was a kind
gesture.

A gentle goodbye.

It's what I remember most.


.

these hopes
unmet

these needs
unfed

this being

untouched

looking for a
body
to put it
all
in