How strange that I haven’t heard from you in so long, and I know I miss you.
What seems strange to others..
You don’t call or write and every blurb is from a stranger. Each sentence, lip synched from a keypad; a bald spot now infinitely greater, wrinkles distinct with hands gesturing on a piece of paper with a pencil. Saddle bags and muffin tops and restrooms where the piss splashes onto the floor.
And yeah– you and I look fucking stupid playing along.
…The lost art of keeping it personal. Now marketed for mass appeal.
Miles of clutter & shit as I stumble blindly through what I remember of us. Or me- maybe there was never an “us”? Being drunk isn’t a memory- it’s slavery. BELIEVE IT, OR DIE IN DISBELIEF.
We don’t see each other anymore, but I know so much about you; the economy of motion- and all your thoughts as they line up in a day.
Where was that moment we lost touch?
[Banality won’t disguise your own contempt.]
… and that’s just a funny word for your sorry ass life. And the investment I made.
You have decided to check out a long time ago. And I watch you walk out the back door- anonymity is a rare find.
Your bags are where I left them.