she looks at me as if to say,
you were simply,
an honest mistake,
made with good intention,
and nice at the time,
but long since forgotten,
a futile woodwind, in
an orchestral life,
struggling to make an impact,
on hyperbolic composition...

tell me, truthfully,
you don’t remember its pitch,
the call of its notes,
rang true, it seemed,
for you to imply,
it was not even heard,
makes a mockery of the
efforts made,

honestly, just once,
say its crescendoes
did not bellow, with
the strength of
a timpani, the
sweetness of flutes,
the heart of a sax,

say that the notes
that you sang at the time,
were a lie, simply,
an honest mistake,
and i'll leave this composition,
promising though it seemed,
broken and incomplete,
just as you’d like.

i'm lost without you....
not lost as in a
lost soul
or a metaphorical endless search
that i now find myself on.
i'm not aimlessly wandering
through an abyss,
the darkness of which
is only matched
by the black of your hair...
no.
i mean,
literally.
like you knew,
directions really well,
and would always remember
where i parked my car,
and you'd hold my hand to
guide me through a crowd
towards the
right cardinal direction.
that sort of lost.
pragmatic.
where do i go
from here?

I'm tripping over myself
falling into a
funny daze or a dance or
a trance and I can't recover;
I'm running circles
in a paper house that's bound
to tip or burn into the ground.

Shackled by leaves and vines,
confined in words and rhymes,
lost in a moment trying to find
peace within my mind
Longing for a place that's just
Over there, just there, I must
Reach it, keep walking moving
constantly moving, the earth
is moving without my help so
I can't stop for long or else
I'll realize I'm useless.

I call it thinking but I'm a liar
to myself and I'm a fire
determined to never go out
and never tire
My "thoughts" are only circles, only games,
and my face is never the same,
every day I change again
and try to avoid my shame again
running circles in my paper house that's bound
to tip or burn into the ground.