Of the two lamps in the room,
my glassy eyes can only tolerate the dimmed glow
of the lower light from the right,
my face basking in the slowly rotating,
barely blowing air from the fan above me.
My face feels flushed,
but not from the semi-sticky early summer heat,
but from the fact that
every time I come back to this room,
I'm reminded of why I left.
The lawyer in me could generate a list,
pros longer than any construction of cons,
yet your name will always reverberate
in the unforgotten corners of my subconscious.
You never loved me like I did you,
and even my romanticized version of you never
saw me the way I
still feel the ghost of you.
I can still feel the crisp fall air from your balcony
and recall the albums and conversations that
complete the track list
of my unrequited love story.
Sometimes it was real,
sometimes it's real,
sometimes it's a dream,
sometimes it's a memory.
And this is the essence of you and me;
it's more questions than answers,
smoke and mirrors and
smoking to make things clearer.
I've never been the same
since you,
but I also don't know how I can ever
get over someone I never really had.
You were mine in microcosms
that were macro extraterrestrial galactic;
was it real?
were we real or
was it all [science] fiction?
