February
  Cold short four weeks
      Slow part of the year
Yet, rent is faster.
Electric meter outside hums louder
It's wheels gaining momentum
And the dial a blur.
And they chose this month to honor your love.
    Valentine's  should be in June.
When the grass is long
Maintenance  needs done
And a old man can make a buck.
Trim a hedge.  Pick up broken bricks
At the newlyweds house being erected.
I'm in love.
The best love I have ever known.
The love I propose is endless.
I want to buy her things and be her gentleman that sends bouquets and boxes of chocolates and rings with sparkling diamonds necklaces and fine linens and silk sheets.
I find myself drunk and forlorn and hopeless.
Until,
In my mind I see her face.
And I melt and feel warm
I say her name,  over and over.
DiAnne, you are my everything.
I love you like no one before.
And I profess
My love forever.
Will you be my Valentine?

O, speak, Torment! I shall lament no more; no more of this uncertainty in which I have been thrown in, no more of this game in which my Virtues always win, in which I always surrender to the tenderness and reproach of the Lady. I, too, wish to speak my mind up. For I love thee not like a cat loves a mouse, like a dandy dragoon Captain loves a Cossack woman. But I love thee like a young man falling headlong in love, like the Priest loves his God, a devotion only a man who had long been tormented by solitude and uncertainty could gather in his heart, like a dying man grasping for his last breath; but do tell me: dost thou despise me? O, this torment of uncertainty!

I used to write to inspire.
To let other knows what I was feeling by painting scenic views with my words
So that they'd know they weren't alone
So they'd know that no matter what happens,
Someone else is alongside them
Even if it was some stranger way out in the big wide open world

But now I feel alone

Which doesn't make any sense because I have a family that I hand-picked,
And am almost never actually alone

And also doesn't make sense because I still write
Which, one would assume means I've encountered a solution to this issue

But the writing doesn't help
And the cigarettes stopped working
So I'm stuck

And the thing is, I keep reading and rereading my old works
And none of it actually helps

Even when I distance myself from the piece and read it from a new perspective I end up getting the question I can't answer:
Why the **** does it matter if we experience the same or even similar pains?
Who am I, to think my experiences are worthy or even meaningful enough to share and spread like a virus?

So why do I write?

I'm just some guy on the internet
A shitposter trying to squeeze some semblance of a serious tone from the internet
A mind screaming to have some form of deep, meaningful conversation with anyone
When in reality that doesn't matter to anyone
Because life has squeezed sentiment until it became a pebble being kicked on the park sidewalk

So why pick up a pen to write to a world that no longer remembers how to read?

It makes about as much sense as

Well anything really

Maybe that vague understanding of nothing making sense ever is my reason

Maybe I don't really need a reason to express myself

But *******, would it be nice

love is
the friendly atlantic ocean
a lotion that never fully rubs in
humid air

love permeates
like a leaky roof
honey on toast
dandelions