This is not about you.
nor anyone in particular.


This is about me,
and my direction.
Doing the things that I want to do.


The best, the worst.
But what I want to do.
To better my world.
To better my time.


To feel the wind
and let the fall breeze
fill my lungs and expel
all the things that have
dropped in.


To insolence. Of memory.
If time held no such fate.


Was such as a parcel delivered
torn and rip-shredded from the post office.
with a "whoops, sorry!" note attached
and it's contents empty.


I'd still remember.
It's not as though I could ever really forget.
And I do not believe that you would either.


Your next drink, my love, is on me.