I've spent a lot of time.
Just wasting it.
And the frustration builds up like my soon to come midlife crisis.
Could I have been something better than this.

Fumbled speech.
This.
Awkward glance.
This.
Apprehensive twitch.
This.
Somnolent nightmare.

I sleep through the days.
Disconnected from everything.

A loner on the run.
From nothing.
In particular.

Maybe she reads these requiems.
Maybe she still cares.
As I whittle away tomorrow with ten more cigarette
Good byes.

What's the point of a whispered.
Half spoken.
Last sigh.
To the darkness.
And the cold.
Still.
Night.

I'm afraid of tomorrow and what I might be.
Unloved.
Neurotic.
Alone and aghast at the prospect of finding a life in this cold damp haze that is my life.
My life
My wretched life.
I watched it pass away.
Buffered by a could have been.
And smoked away like lazy days.
All my ambitions deflated in failure.
Never trying.
Hard.
Enough.

No meaningful relationships.
No friends to spare.
Just my own personal monotony.
Laid bear for none to see.