I could love you if we tried,
I really think I could,
But I think right now,
I don't really think we should.

I'm trying not to,
I'm trying to ignore the urge to say I love you,

Less and less of it every day,
But those memories won't go away.

I thank god that you showed up,
I'm glad I found you with my luck,
And I'm glad we loved each other for a week,
But I'd really rather just remember that ****,

That night, those days,
My heartbeat and yours
No regret.
None.
And society will call me a *****
And I will laugh and say
"I loved her."
"I really did."
And it will not be a fib.

If I lived her life,
I'd **** myself,
Every ******* day.

I'd put a gun up to my head
And send lead through my own brain.

I wouldn't keep on living if I knew I was a liar,
I'd try to be pure,
I 'd push myself through fire.

And sure, I'm not pure,
But purer things desire,
That purer men seek purer still,
Unlike that ******* liar.

The world will keep spinning
If the population starts thinning.

Maybe she can be the beginning.
*Of the end.

A uniformity in expectance,
A subconscious wait.
My mind knows it's coming
Like some kind of date.

Her words,
Be they good or bad,
Are expected,
If only a tad.

2 AM,
My body wakes
It's so ******* late
Will it come?

I wait.

Richard was in his lab.
White coat and plastic bag.
Carrying lenses for the telescope.
To view planets.
And other space rocks.

Gemini 4551.
An asteroid.
Projected for Earth collision.
Two years exactly.
Richard kept a calendar.
Only he knew.

Richard and his lenses.

-

Richard told the president.
And his advisors.
They asked for proof.
But. He said.
I can’t see it today.
I don’t know where it went.
Let me clean the lenses.

Richard cleaned the lenses.
Still nothing.
The officials left.
Lunatic wannabe hero.

-

Many things were wrong.
Richard hated life.
His wife left.
His dog died.
No family.
No friends.
Richard hung himself on a Sunday.
Maybe God would care.

-

The asteroid came.
Uncaring.

He walks with no extraordinary gait,
No abnormal actions,
No external signs.

His steps sound human.
They are.

His voice sounds human.
It is.

So why does he hate himself.
Why do the charred hands within his chest scratch at the clay doll he calls a heart.
Why does he pick away at the chipping layer of lies and truths and in-betweens which coat his insides with a yellow paint.
Why does he pressure the unpressurable.
Why does he push every boundary but one.
Why is he the bad guy.

Why is his hero absent.
Where is he.

I get to use my Z key.
Quite a rare site to see.
A tap and a tick in the bottom left hand corner of my keyboard.
I like it.
This tapping and ticking.