I'm sowing my oats.
the Craigslist ad said.
Just a normal guy in my 20s
in great shape looking
for people to sow my oats.

The exclamation.
Then lack of
or signature,
signifies loudly.

I get it.
You got your message across.

Even though I asked for no response,
you responded out of politeness.

So I responded.

But a conversation
was not what you wanted.

So you shrugged email
ettiquete off and sent
back two lines of text,
almost like a text.
It wasn't even formatted.

Do you hate me?
I dumped you a year ago,
so you must hate me now.

There is no room in your new room
for our fond failure.
Only success happens.
Mistakes are holograms
we can't change yet
linger over
again and again.

Perhaps for you,
it's just easier to
sprint through
hey! hi! how are you?
and move on.
But I can't.

I loved you.

I am not just an ex;
I gave you the locket around your neck;
I don't want you to forget

I want you to remember
every moment in 3D color.
Be the intermission
to your originally scheduled programming,
the star of your dreams,

I want to be that girl you think about sometimes.

The one that got away.

I mean, not in a torturous way!

Just someone deserving
of more
than bitterness and blasé.

I don't understand why as you as you stop dating someone, it's like this switch turns off in their head and they immediately start treating you like some rando on the street.

I find it impossible to be anyone but myself.

There's no one here
in the cool dark air.
Everything's clean and tidy,
for visitors presumably,
but no one drops by.
The bar is stocked,
the light is ambient,
tea's a brewin',
jazz is playing,
and I look cute.
But I am tired.
Tired of seeking
the company of those
who ruin this mood,
this solitude.

Wish we could all just chill

When success finds you,
it leaves you orange,
then brown,
then blue,
green, anew,
with a shiny wax coating,
impenetrable, ready to rustle,
wind shaking you loose.

After no one helps beyond helpless words.

After no one understands, but congratulates anyway.

It can make you feel high and alone.
Somewhere sacred, secret, and beyond reach.
The sun you yearned for so eagerly in the distance, ignoring those crumbling around you.

It's September 8th.
The expiration of
desert summer
and I'm pruned,
waiting to emerge
as the triumphant
success story,
from what my future self
calls a faded daze
a lapse of judgement,
a growth experience,
or the onset of quarter-life crisis?
I can't make judgements.
I'm too busy profusely sweating,
puddle jumping in pools,
capturing liquid
sunshine in my palms,
throwing them up
each morning the sun rises,
and I wake,
to an uncertain expiration date.
before the sun
sets behind me.

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