"It's ****** depressing, when you think about it."
I looked up from my cigarette, which I had been admiring soberly in the dark moonlight.
"When you think about what?"
"When the person you're talking to is more interested in their stinkin' cigarette than your "spilling of the heart.""
"I apologize, sincerely. How may I make it up to you?"
My partner sighed.
"I don't know Nolan, tell me one of your horrible stories that always make me feel better."
I thought for a few minutes before I stumbled upon an ill fated November morning in my thoughts.
"Well Tyler, this one time I was fishing with my dad and his friend, Todd, on Todd's boat. We were out on this ******* chilling lake at 6 in the morning and I had fallen asleep. Todd's boat was small and only had two seats, the driver and the passenger. So, being the youngest on the boat I had to sit on an ice chest by the motor. It reeked of oil and nasty stuff yet I somehow managed to fall asleep. When I woke up, my dad was yelling, telling me to stay awake. I figured, seeing how I was on a boat, I might as well fish. I picked up a pole and cast it out of the end of the boat. On my first ill fated cast I got tangled with Todd's line. So, we reeled in and untangled them. On the next cast the same thing happened, only I dangled with my dad's line. They told me it might be better if I stopped casting out so I returned to my ice chest throne and almost instantly fell asleep. I woke up to my dad yelling at me again. We were at shore and they were telling me to get off and sit on shore until they were done. So, I went on shore and fell asleep almost, again, instantly. I woke up via my own devices and I started throwing rocks into the water, trying to make them skip. I watched my dad and Todd fish from their tiny little boat. They were right out in the middle and a leak had sprung. They started coming back to shore but, as if on quee, the motor died. Long story short, the boat sunk. My dad and Todd were fine. Todd wasn't even that made because his boat was a ******* floating stick, basically. I just find it funny that my ableness to fall asleep and my patrons impatience caused me to be warm and dry while they ended up wet and pissy."

Lie naked with me.
Forget everything, we are
the most important.

Instead of going out on that Friday night
she got out her old suitcase
and filled it with every memory
of the one who broke her heart.
She gathered every picture,
every love letter and poem,
every baggy band sweatshirt
and gently packed them away.
With her warmest scarf and mittens on
she hauled the baggage
down to the taxicab
and gave the driver an address.
"Here you are, miss
did you need a hand with that bag?"
She kindly refused the offer
and stepped onto the pier.
The suitcase grew heavier
and heavier by the minute
as she drug it all the way
to the edge of the dock.
Waves crashing against the wood
and the wind ruining her hair
she took one last look at the bag
and tossed it over the edge.
A single tear streamed down
her rosy red cheeks
as the tide took away
the suitcase full of broken promises.
She ran back to the cab
and asked him to take her home
where she could finally exist
without the burdens of love.
There is no moral to the story,
no real point to be had
Except that I am that girl
and I put you in that bag.

I'm going to marry a writer.
How could I not?
She won't be Holden Caulfield because I'm too much of a phony.
She won't be Gatsby because I'll never be a Daisy.
She won't be the moon because I'll never shine as bright as the sun.

I won't be Caulfield, but she won't be a phony.
I won't be Gatsby, but I'll fall madly in love with her.
I won't be the moon, but she'll shine brighter then the sun.

We'll drink too much coffee, smoke too many cigarettes, stay up to late.
We'll wear sweaters and carve pumpkins and listen to Tigers Jaw.
We'll read books and we'll write poetry and we'll live our lives.
                    with each other                  forever.
We will live                            happily

I couldn't tell you why the loveless are more likely to read love poems then those smitten with love.
It doesn't make sense. A man starving to death is not going to enjoy reading a cook book.
Yet, I, personally, do not read or write poems about love when I have it.
Coincidentally, I write about sadness when I feel sad.
The loneliest poet writes about loneliness.
And it is beautiful.

Being able to live in a cabin in the woods sounds wonderful.
I would grow a beard and I would drink pine tea.
Everyday I would go out and chop wood,
or fish or hunt or pick berries.
I would return to my cabin,
and my wife will be there.
She is beautiful and
earthly and we
love one
another.
She would stay at home and cook a nice homely dinner for us. She would read books and knit and paint and do whatever she wanted to. When I walk in the door I would kiss her cheek and tell
her that she is beautiful and I would mean it and she would believe it. Our house would
be warm in the winter and there would be an ice cold lake for the summer. We
would have a dog that has golden hair and doesn't need a leash he just
comes when we whistle and he would eat our leftovers and he
would be fat and lazy and he would make us laugh and
we loved him like a child and eventually we would
have a child but that isn't even on our minds
at this point. Everyday would be the same
but the would also bring us great
discovery and love and worth.
Eventually we will have
a baby boy and he
will look more like
his mother but
he'll still have
my blue
eyes.

Love.

The young boy stuffed his hands back into his pockets and looked down.
His black shoes looked nice against the moldy, rotten, floor of the boat.
Water splashed up onto the back of his neck just as he pulled his hood up.
He had forgotten it was there and his ears instantly felt warmer.
Him, his old man, and his old man's friend had launched the boat 15 minutes ago.
After some trouble they got it started and began across the frosty lake.
The sun was still not up yet, and the temperature was below freezing.
"See the steam rising off the water?" the second old man had asked,
"The water is warmer than the air."

And so they had began their journey.

"Stand up for a sec, James, I need to get to the tackle box."
The boy complied and was surprised to find that it was warmer standing up.
Even with the wind slapping at his face.
Just as his father retrieved the box he shouted "Rich! Stop!"
There was another boat not 10 feet in front of them, running perpendicular to there boat.
Rich slammed the engine into reverse.
He smacked his head on the small windshield in front of him, knocking him out.
The boy's dad fell over and smacked his head on the side of the boat, almost knocking him out.
James went flying. He flew straight over the front of the boat and into the water.
Not even a second later the underside of the boat smacked into his back.
Not even a second after that the propeller from the boat sliced off his left hand
and also chopped down to the bone in his neck.

Time of death was estimated to be at 6:07 A.M.
Rich was alright, the crash causing a minute fracture in the second disk of his neck.
The boy's father was also alight, only re breaking his long ago broken left shoulder.
The single child's mother killed herself six days later.
His girlfriend never dated another boy ever again.
Until she met Bobby, who took her pain away with the knuckles on his strong right.
His father never returned to work, instead drank away his welfare and later his life.
Rich lived almost normally until his daughter was diagnosed with a rare bone cancer,
killing her within weeks of diagnosis.
Then, he moved to Arizona and was killed by a **** dealer.

And the world went on.

I met you tonight.
You smelled nice
and I sat next to
you for two hours.
Sure, there was a
fifteen minute break.
But so what? Your
bangs hung straight
across your forehead
and you skirt lay
loosely around your
thighs. Your sweater
clung to you body
and you clung to my
mind. I know your
name and I know
your face but I know
not you.

It was your first time going to a show and you told me you felt like a white crayon.
It was my thirteenth show and I told you white crayons looked very nice on any color paper but white. So why limit yourself?

You had your legs
crossed and your
foot kept touching
my calf and instead
of recoiling I let it
happen. I talked to
you and when I took
my coat off it flailed
in your face and I
said "I'm sorry, sorry."
And you curled your
mouth into a cute
smile and told me it
was really okay, and
then the show was very
good and how many
have I been to. It's funny
how you're cute and I'm
me and you laughed
when I said stupid
things and I let our
legs touch and I even
held the door open for
you and said "Goodnight,
Lady. See you next Monday."
And you said "Goodnight,
Nolan. If fate wills it,
so it shall be." And we
laughed and I begged fate
to will it.

I could be lovely
but I would rather cover
myself in darkness

The old man sighed and jammed his freshly rolled, freshly lit cigarette into the ash tray.
"Too many cigarettes before bedtime oft' keep an' old man like me up all night."
The young man put out his cigarette as well, gently weeping inside over the wasted tobacco.
"Aye, a youngin' like myself as well."
The conversation had been going slightly south ever since the young man made the mistake of asking about his counterparts first wife. "She died," he had said "One of them December o' 2012 suicides that plagued the big cities such as this."
The young man remembered how he had looked out the window at this point a bit too nostalgically.
"She was crazy," he had added "I knew it the day I slipped the ring on and I know it now."
They dropped the subject and began talking about The War, coincidentally another touchy subject.
"Most of my friends died, and if you've read your history books you know it was not courage or chivalry that killed them but the ignorance and fear that our country breathed when drafting all the young men."
He had escaped with his life, which he believed was garbage. he told of how he had hid in the sewers while the long thought peaceful Canadian's swarmed over the East coast. While his friends died he ate rats. While the war machine chugged he was cowering.

"Aye, I see how you looked at that stoke, though."
"Pardon?" The young man had been deep in thought of the conversation they had been having.
"How old are you anyway?"
"19 on the 9th."
"And still not a whisker on your chin, aye?"
"Aye."

He told of many more battles. Some he fought in, others he cowered under.
"And one, that I cowered over. I passed out in the helicopter, do-it-please-yah."
He told of his second wife, a bit more fondly and romantically than his first wife.
She had passed away not 8 months before the young man visited him for the first time and that was 6 months past.

He showed scars, from the prison camps.
He rolled cigarettes from his poke pouch.
He admitted forgetting the face of his father.

Or at least help me die.
But I guess these are the same thing.
Whoops.