I would love to poke fun;
really really I would.
But that was more your thing.
Your shtick.

I'm more-   I'm more anaphoric.
But I don't really know what it means.
But did you know what it means?

I never took the lens cap off.
But there was a girl here once,
in this room; this quiet space in time.

It is a feeling, a happening.
Just as only once like Holiday I had an April in Paris.
This is a feeling.

Anaphoric, destined to be repeated.
Anaphoric, like scissors chopping; redoing.
Resculpting structures in my mind.

There was a girl here once, unlike some others.
But still, alike so many in a sense,
the strangest sculpture I've ever seen.

The small of her back, aviators on the floor.
God, like her spine was hand-made.
Like her existence was improbable.

Oh, now I know why junkies want heroine.
Once you feel it once you need it again,
and again, and again, and the girls after her
were all my relapse; my sickly coping mechanism.

But not because I couldn't help it.
Because there was a girl here once,
with thick rimmed glasses and a smile.
And most importantly, a heart.

There was a girl here once. Anaphoric, like scissors. Repeating.
And when she left I was searching for her, longing for my closure.

You take off your shirt.
Lie down on my bed.
You're very pretty.
I hate you.

I hate you for being prettier than me.
You tell me to come closer,
you light a candle.
Burn the impatience in my heart.

You turn down the radio, the skin of your
chest in the calm light shining, reflecting almost
my face with it's smoothness and clarity.
I hate you.

But you pull me down, 60 feet beneath the surface,
and I can feel your breath along my face. Warm
and loud, and peacefully provocative.
Tear my soul out because I know you will leave.

They say in college I will be free,
they say in high school I will experience,
they say in faded sighs that elementary was long ago,
they say middle school should be a passing trip.
Get in, get out.

And repeat; like a revolver cycling the cylinder,
like a car rounding a hill.
Like a sun spinning for years, of the millions of years it follows.
Like the pointed stare of a disappointed mother, never ceasing.
But alas; always seizing my attention.

That is the grand mystery of life, besides love.
It is the gaze of a stern and bitter wind upon my face,
the rough click of my fingers tapping the keyboard,
and the culling of a feeling that I know I could've felt.

It is the wonder that brings me to tears on the mountain's peak.
It is the feeling of never being able to hike high enough,
to never swim far enough; to never be enough.
And mostly, it is the misery and my affiliation with fame.

Like talent is an old forgotten friend, or technique that flew from
the window like a blue bird released from it's cage.

I am deranged,
scarily deformed mentally.
Horribly scarred along my back.
Reminisce of liars I dare do business with.

The devil himself must have given me these hands,
and these friends,
and these sponsors,
and these slowly closing feelings.

Well, all that is left is the imitator, not the imitated.
Never the imitated would last in a field of growing orchid.
Trace the same scars as the hotel here now,
as I stand on the roof, where one half is missing.

The breeze almost shakes me, and I can see myself fall.

Half Life 2,
I remember you.
Gordon Freeman in all your glory,
shining down so effortlessly, so sorely.

It breaks my heart Gordon,
that I remember you, but you don't remember me.

Well, sometimes I remember things you wouldn't believe.

Where did you go Trevor?
I miss you, and every endeavor.
It breaks my heart to see you lost,
or rather, I guess, less than betrothed.

I hope you know I'll miss you man,
as I often missed you when I was young.

I hope you realize your impact while you're out having fun.

Does love ever die? That's a question I would've asked a year ago.
The feeling sticks after I receive the answer.
Like a faulty receiver, the trigger bent and twisted; or a node for an AI that doesn't have a behavior tree to attach to, it sticks but nothing becomes. There is no takeaway.

Have you ever ridden your bike without it's training wheels?
I mean really felt it; the wind in your hair rushing down to your face. The warm breeze that makes you so comfortable lapsing over your every breath and pause, waiting to whip your shirt around again and again?