august.

they are dropping like flies. dead. 

would it matter if we add one more. 

feelings or otherwise. another dream perhaps. 

I'd very much like music playing while it all happens.

and I want to sleep after.

a long dreamless sleep, where you wake up thirsty after. 

haunted by a nameless longing that never quite faded like the recent sleep.

if not longing, then something akin to loss. loss after almost all the grief has gone.

and only desolateness remains.

sitting on your bed, in this desert

where sand swirls but there is no wind.

timeless. 

LF

my number one supporter 

my dedicated fan.

John Mayer saves me again.

I still get anxious when I press play.
certain songs, certain riffs, certain lyrics are rough-edged; designed to cut straight through anyone's high pain threshold. 

I have to remember, though, that the numbness has taken root, gotten deep over the years. pain doesn't feel the same way as the same pain from before. everything is dulled and easily shaken off. 

what I could have only dreamed of having. for my first heartbreak or loss. and grief.

this is not what I wanted. at all.

resignation.

I sigh my sigh of sighs, thinking that music helps while I watch you in my mind,

my stolen catharsis,  breaking into a smile.

and I am breaking as well, even if music helps, and I watch the horizon go by.
because it is much easier. Much easier to break than to stay. 

I catch you staring, blankly, at something. and you're suddenly beautiful. for the hundred. thousandth. time. and equally painful.

I'll walk a little farther this twilight and keep my mind off things. but not you. and the hundred. thousand. timelines.

break. 

paris.

they say
is a wonder.

but a disappointing wonder.
of dog shit and expensive shit.

do you still want to go? with me. To Paris
at 15 euros for two coffees.

your upside down Louvre,
with that curved Monalisa smirk,
and your silence during my silence.
is Paris.

and free coffees
in the office.

mixed in with your secret spices.

is a wonder.

forgetting time.

I am the one who waits for you.
I am in between remembering that dream and waking.
I wait for you there. 
and wait for you, still.
seconds before you eyes close. 

Killer.

A sudden pang of longing hit me, of riding the metro at night, singing along with Brandon Flowers while fighting the current existential angst. Then I find myself moving along with the crowd having a separate sense of urgency. 

I walk slowly towards inevitability, the curbside lined with thoughts of jumping off the ledge of this certainty. 

The longing passes, except for the ache. Mr. Flowers sang that dreams aren't what they used to be. It's now dark again. I'm there. I'm always there in the end.

If the answer is no, can I change your mind?