Once you told me something, it really wasn't important. In the long run. (at least, so I didn't believe.)
We all hope, someday that our lesson willl be won,
I miss you, towards our infernal eternity,
your unflattering eye scoping all that I am, or would like to be...
I am nothing. I once had a captive classroom attentiveness, towards, well... you. It's all become soo, passé, Blasé, even? Blech. Apathy should be contraband, should it not?
Where've you gone? What is our "next bold move", and are we even ready?
On this supposition, I drink towards this. This condolesence.
Ryan's father is dead. Dead. He'd even still be so and you've even seen this once before, have you not? "I'm all too great in your presence." Jesus!
High above the treeline, he holds his hat towards all of us. "It's a giant", I would say. We, or, I'd speak of - a "we" of condolence, a "we" of fight, a "we" of twenty seconds way too late.
For what do we truly, in hindsight, believe?
I miss your selfworthy thoughs, my dear.
I invent words on occasion.
I do it for you.
I think of that night, your birthday! That night, when we first met. I think of all those seven hours; I wanted to strangle you.
just until your breath would stop.
Or at least you wouldn't try to capitulate this. It leaves me dead, my dearest. Maybe I am. Or am I soo acting retarded? Towards this memory?
I could go on, but you're not here. Just a bottle of scotch that has it's handle on me.
Now where are my keys?
They're back home, a short yellow cab ride away.
