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I’m never going to write you a letter
Never going to call you on the phone
I’m never going to drive by your house
I’m never going to catch you coming outside
Never going to walk up your walk
And ring your bell
And feel you fall into my arms



Never wanted to care like this.

Sake

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The bags under my eyes have tripled in size over the past four days,

l o n g,
sagging,
sad crescent shapes dripping from a face
so determined to stay the night awake
to make
and make
to create
all for love and academia’s sake, I make
I stay awake
I make awake seem perpetual, put sleep at stake
with motions in disguise of awake
awake is not awake
awake
is
fake.
And to break, to sleep, to wake, to stop motion flow stop motion
f – l – o – w
for flowing’s sake, I break
I take
time
to
breathe, for breathing’s sake
and thank
that I’m alive.

Will the Real Sick Lady Please Lay Down

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The first thing I hear every morning is static. I never bothered to properly tune the radio, and I never cared much for the music it played; come to think of it, I never cared much for waking up. Then there’s the daunting task of taking a shower, of liberally applying layers of cosmetics, of finding my car keys. I do not like mornings.

Maybe my days get off to bad starts because of this curmudgeon-inducing static. If my alarm crooned ‘Here Comes the Sun’ on vinyl, I bet I’d thrust into a jovial world sunshine and roses. Better yet, if Jack Johnson or John Mayer or someone slightly dreamy (Waldo might even qualify for this) would sit at my bedside and softly, gently, and oh-so-tenderly brandish me awake, I might actually roll out of bed with a smile on my face (my ex-roommates and best friends can tell you that this is, indeed, unpossible).
Perhaps the worst mornings are those when above all static, coughing prevails. Sickness! Hypothetically speaking, I’d continue to lay in bed, and scrutinize if there was any possible way to rise. My bedside stand, serving as an outpost for all sorts of danger, would be stacked with candles, bottled water, and the codeine syrup that I’d swigged generous proportions of the night before. And twenty-eight minutes into my attempt at sleep that night before, after plugging my nose and chugging codeine syrup, I’d realized that there were no pillow cases on my pillows. So I’d ascend to my closet to sift through last month’s laundry, stuff the dimwitted pillows into their sacks and call it a sick night, and later a sick morning. Then I’d skip class and wallow in sickness.
I wish I could say the previous paragraph were false.

Bygone You

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My good man, you are eloquent. You wear the tears of society’s cares quite nicely, and with class and a lovely rage. I do believe you’ve got what people pay for, pray for, work all day, every day for. Dear man, you didn’t even have to contort your style not ever, never, all the while you were right on the money, right on.

Right on wrong, long ways make for lousy pay in together’s game. Each day we’ll wait in a bitter state of inexplicable debate and wonder, curse ways we made so-called mistakes before shifting, drifting, I’ll call late, listening, what-in-Christ-sake are we doing, what kind of race of distaste, what a waste, what a waste.
Just wait! Think of all the ways we could negotiate: you, I, me, we, none! A punishment worthy of a crime none, walking a tree-lined boulevard in sun, believing in one and love, vanquished leaves and yesterday gone, done away with bygone you, bygone done.