You asked me if I remembered you
Like I forgot you
I still have our conversations from a year ago
Your picture still in my phone
Name drawn to perfection
Still in the back of my binder
How could I forget you
Could I ever?
I was your vault to so many secrets
Things I even forgot
But I remember you telling me
"Can I tell you a secret?"
You trusted me when not many others did
I guess you just faded
We both did
I'm not the guy you used to know
Always writing poetry that made sense
Having the talent to actually tell you how you feel
I guess I'm not worried about forgetting you
Your a permanent reminder of who I used to be
The guy you could talk to for any reason
The guy miles away you never met
Just knew could put a smile on your face
Even when things at home seemed unbearable
I wonder if you remember me as that guy
Or wonder who I am now
An alcoholic? Pothead? Homeless freak going nowhere?
Guess I'm a little of all the above
Could I forget you was the question
No I could never
Could you forget me?
If not tell me who I was
Maybe I can be that guy one more time

The up side to living in a place so empty is if there is no one playing music, you learn how to listen to the trees. If there is no art, you learn to see the beauty in the trash cans, the plastic bags, the blurred faces. If there is no one telling you they love you, you silently question yourself into spirals, or find it in the dirt. My fingernails are clotted. My head: fluid. My face lighted by friction of grinding teeth. I will knock myself over when I'm ready, and trees will grow from my dust long after they've thrown me away.

Don't second guess the heart of holy ghosts. Don't recommend the books that seek your skin and heathen bones. Don't fall guilty of happiness and fraud or life or experience or jargon, or unlucky fines of brute crest mammals herding north. It's all in my head, tell me again.
Pointed knuckles seek the throne, seek help. Empty plastic bags bland the glit of coming phosphors, heat the shining thumbs of forty men. It's all in my head! I didn't see them work themselves to death, fall out hurtless among the chips ahoy box, resting empty on my carpet! Eat the herbs, taste the body, sing through nostrils geometrically still. Stare at your future, a grey dust bit, breezing circles on the window sill.

People don't take kindly to wanting everything to be free.
Elephant tears in latin skin drip quickly from their leather faces while they scream "This is America, you have to pay for what you believe".
No one has ever applied land of the free so literally. Golden prosperity jingling. Stick with the concrete, and fall through winter folds.