There's times that seem
to fit and make it all more real.

Like the snapping of the
plastic seal on that
cheap bottle of
*****.
Just as she slams the door
for that final time.

Frusciante on the radio
and you with a needle in
your hand.

The seagull who passed and
dropped his waste
upon your sunset.

There's images that swirl
inside your head and
leave behind deep grooves
within your memories

Impressions like her
sculpted face in candle light.
That strung out you in the mirror
that even you didn't recognize.

There's that love you
thought was dead
and those addictions
you swore you
left behind.

There's times and ways
that seem to fit.

And it's what lengthens
this life that are like the
pages of a calender.
One on top of the next
to be written over.

All to be lived
one page at a
time