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.

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