Getting Old

I get on and off the trains without looking or listening, somehow reaching my destination, waddling with the morning penguins.

I try to stop myself from drinking enough coffee to make my stomach hurt, but it's a nice way to get my mind off my mind.

It's time for a change of scenery.

I can hear the difference in his voice. It's striking, and I droop a little. I'm too empathetic. I'm more empathetic with his depression than my own. I offer suggestions, trying not to sound like an authority. It sounds something like how it goes in my head. I love when I try to fix other people to avoid fixing myself.

But I'm not even interested anymore. Everything grows old, threatening to take me with it.

This vibrating in my chest is becoming bothersome, nearly a shutter. Soon I'll vibrate myself right out of this town, and into a new scenario to become old. But really, I'm the one that's getting old, and I take everything with me.

Kimchi and Wine

I let the fermented cabbage and grapes dance together in my stomach. I set my glass on the mini Native American carpet and think, that could have been our life together -- meaningful coasters on carefully selected side tables. We would have been good at it, too -- your minimalism combined with my initiative.

But you're doing that with someone else now, and I stopped caring about aesthetics.

You never liked my spontaneity. I just annoyed you when I got hyper and wanted to feast on the world. I'd bounce around you on the bed as you tried to concentrate and block me out. Eventually, you'd look into my grin and sigh, and I'd let my head drop.

You read four or five books at the same time and kept several journals, or whatever they were. You never told me your thoughts. You'd much rather write them down, or read someone else's version of them. I'd watch you scribble away, wondering what you were writing, wondering if you'd ever ask me what I thought.

I remember how lonely I was when I was with you. Funny how I feel less lonely now that I'm alone. Except for your hands. I remember your hands.

Why can't I cover my face when I want to? Why is it so hard to stay hidden? You didn't understand why I'd stretch your wide hand over my whole face, but you let me do it. And you let me hold it there as long as I wanted.

That's why I miss you.

Love Potion #9

Men:

3 parts confidence, 1 part vulnerability

Women:

2 parts timidity, 1 part sexy, with a dash of indifference

Mix well, and let stand.

Thoughts in my head like fucking Le Loup...

I don't feel hollow, though I feel the absence of my stomach, my mind, my heart...

What was I when I was fourteen? A child. But I got it better back then.  I hated myself, but I think I loved myself more than I do now.

It was when friendship meant life. Parents meant love and hatred. Everything was intense. And you were barely distinguishable from your environment.

Now everything is isolating. Isolation. -- No one gets me. I'm all alone. The world is strange and cold. I can't find the warmth and safety. Et cetera, et cetera.

Maybe things haven't changed after all. They just have more consequences now.

In Love

The sky has been layered lately,
rippled.
How intuitive of it.

But it cannot convey the simultaneous stillness
and tumult inside me.
I am erratic and confused
as I sit,
arms holding legs
holding chest,
and wait.

Wait.

What am I waiting for? I can't
remember what I wanted.
Did I want something?
Music, The Microphones, emotion?

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

But wait,
wait.

What used to be
an irritated geyser
becomes soft gurgling curls.
I'm tired.

I'm so tired.

I don't want to give up, but
it's slow and I'm fast.
It's fast and I'm slow.

Something,
I feel something,
intensely.

Nothing,
I find nothing,
consistently.

I hate you, god love you.

Reason #1

I think we should be together because your mouth is wet and mine is dry.