Might Even
So tragic, so early. If'n my plans hadn't gone to pot I might have the nerve to watch the trees bare naked in the winter wind. You know how the day escapes especially when you haven't got anything to do. Knowing that you loved me, I'm inured to the tragic fuse, a hand running through your hair, sweet suede carapace of the perfect hour I let escape me. That's just living, grace. I decided a long time ago I didn't want to be here. Yet the fire burns in us all, yet the Hamlet-ian paradox haunts this beggar for soup and soul. To make meaning from some thing. To make a kind of lovely art of falling apart. It's all so cute until the ambulance bill arrives: insurance covered it this time, I want to scream like no one can hear me. You say something loving, my neck stands up higher than any dope, the last of the fools, growing all the time, wrecked on nerve pills, the wasted hours seem so important. I never hesitated to throw myself over the first story balcony.