I find myself alone on a Friday night,
one part choice and two parts frailty,
an inexplicable inability to cope with personalities,
a story as old as the concept of the dreamer,
unfortunate kids who can't do anything but grasp at stars,
and shrink away from shadows,
played on the white-wash walls of our youth,
I know what I must do to change things,
I have the tools,
and yet here I am.

I sit alone drinking hot chocolate,
the kind my mother made for me as a child,
sipping nostalgia,
and thinking of things,
which in some sense are (not necessarily) necessary,
and staring out into lampposts along the parkway,
their light reflecting in my eyes,
and all at once I can be whatever I want,
and achieve whatever my heart desires,
I am thrown back into the restful sleep of the past.

At times like these I can see everything that I need to,
I can see the path ahead of me,
the trail behind,
and the stars stitched to the lights below,
or perhaps it is the opposite,
and thus vertigo sets in the mind of the dreamer,
and tomorrow I will forget it all,
I will no longer believe in love,
or the optimism I have lost,
the forgiveness I freely gave,
and the power to see past what is placed before me.

I am alone,
I am here,
I exist,
(at least I think I do)
I am lonely and I am also at peace,
at peace in the darkness of my choosing,
preferring flecks of hope,
over the blaring noise around me.

People tell me with hushed lips and pained irises,
(pain really only flickers and quietly sinks deep within the absolute oblivions of you.)
that it will get better.
"You grieve, I have done it. Every person has."

Not for this one.

Not for him or her that is.

She had the sort of wittiness that would cut right though that
buttery feeling of warmth
wisped from
one hell of
a
smile.
Guess whose?

He had one of the loveliest voices, one that lulls your tired eyelids to much needed sleep.
A voice that will inexplicably grasp your fingertips when you feel utterly lost and breathless with pain.

And, I could go
   on,  
on
&
on.

Just that my very voice will be cracked
by
the
sweet, bitter
goodbye
whispered by
the yellowing memories
of    

*them.