discovered on my search today
how murakami and itoi
wrote short stories together
in nineteeneightysomething
and daydreamed of the corners
in tokyo i might never see
again all while amazed and longing
for someplace nifty to myself

if i were happy, truly
would that me still
be me

the quiet now when
once you
cut yourself to songs on boxes
shaped like hearts;

                                   today
those edges
too have left
behind all blank and human
shaped a body trembling

enough with flippant poetry
just give me something heavy (yeah!)
you know as well as i do:
that's what depression's for!

(chorus?, then repeat)

i couldn't quite define
those pangs against
the colder white—
appropriately snow
in what felt like december

perhaps just waiting
to be hurt
at last, and under-
stand this pain

still here
these stars
what might they look like
in places where i used to be
old homes and destinations
i always needed to depart
their shimmer
is it that much brighter?
without enough of me
to recognize
myself at night
when i look at the clouds to find
that stars are callous
unconcerned
about me or the yous i lost
no future now worth speaking of
just little lamps
and bland emotions
the usual, you might say

if solitude were virtue
would this for once not make me
a somebody to reckon with