Social Networking

I scroll through your Facebook page and contemplate you.

I see that you are that person who uses hashtags.

The one with "He looks better in person, I swear." profile pictures.

And the one who has a lot of writing on their wall from weird people that probably have good relationships with their mothers.

And then I don't feel so bad about you not liking me back.




Nor do I care that you logged off that one time when you asked if I liked you and I said, "Yes."

Inmost Cases

She whispers things to the blue sky and white clouds.  "I won't be here forever," she says.  "I'm ready to leave, but I'm not ready to move on."

And the clouds reply, in a most disheartening way, "But they have already moved on from you.  You are nothing more than a fleeting thought."

And the sky retorts, "Ah, but that isn't to say they did it of their own will."

And the clouds argue, "She's nothing more than someone that cannot be remembered.  She will always be teetering on the edges of their mind, but never in the conscious thoughts."

And the sky argues back, "But she is still there.  She exists in the subconscious and she doesn't need more than that."

She remains silent as the feud rages on and listens as the clouds turn black and the sky turns gray and everything blurs into one.  And although their words seem true, she does not believe either.

She believes that being forgotten is simpler than that.

It is like the contrast of the blue and white, no blurred edges, no dispute.

You are either remembered or you are not.

There is no in between.

There is only noise

or silence.

Where Were You Hiding?

I sit on the corner of warmth and cold, 

and lay on my back

and close my eyes.

You whisper words I already know, 

carried in the wind,

through one ear

and out the other.

I respond in a way that tells you:

"Yes, how tragic."

or

"I agree."

And you think nothing of it.

I'm Taking Over

I heard you play break up songs.

There are many who fight what they might call longing.  I call it conviction.

He owned a memorial of kind arms and tragedy.

Don't worry.  We all go wrong.

I'm a Long Way From Home

And I don't want to leave.

Every Party Needs a Pooper