I know this foreign method made my throbbing veins its home 'cuz the familiar's not familiar and I'm not fine lest I'm messed up on wine. And 9/10 of all the times I've tried to crack a smile since I lost you have turned out as half-assed lies.
I wander streets, worn out, while I wonder where you are and what you're thinking about while you drive down Henderson... I'll try to dry out from time to time but fall back into bouts internal I'm interred in eternally--and I'll never win them. I'll. Never. Win them.
Not without...
Sorry...
I meander through months while you walk through my mind
--and I'm glad if you're happy?--
but you were quite angry with me that night I took and torched our collection of 5 years' shared memories QUITE ANGRY with me. And the things you said were mean but you meant them.
And you were right About how wrong I was how bad I am, and how I taste like lemon lies on the tongue.
You were right. And I'm drunk.
And sad and sorry and selfish and stupid and absorbed by a salted skyline of cold, purple steel every night.
It *****.
You teach kids for a living, about the age of 9. Me? I try to dry out now and then, time to time, but it's hard.
And you're far.
And I'd still come if I could, but it's hard following this heart when it's buried at the confluence of the Red and Assiniboine Rivers.
Beneath The Forks...
And that heart? Like the ground above it, it's covered with ******, commercial architecture and the clothing of bureaucracy, but ****, we had fun there.