"Have you had any firsts with me at all?" I ask, breath catching and a sadness coming over me as I realize there's not one thing unique about me.

The silence after my question spreads out and latches onto my heart, concreting the idea that I'm nothing special after all.

You flounder, trying to come up with something, anything, but you have not one occasion to offer me.

You possess so very many of my firsts, and I felt there was something important in the act of giving them to you.

But my sweetest memories are quickly tainted by the realization that many others before me gifted you with the same, their own firsts.

And I can't help but feel *****, used, and alone. For a while there, I really thought I was special.

What a joke.

There is no night
no day
no love
no way not a minute to say
or an hour left to pray
no more games to play
or debts I should pay
everything
everything
everything is grey.

No blacks
no whites
no colours to light up the nights
no stars in the sky
or tears left to cry
and nothing to say
the whole World is grey.

Where once I had seen
verdant valleys of green and the reddening of a rose
and colours had put on great colourful shows
I now see places
obsolete, formed by the desperate concreting of dreams over blue mountain streams and in the scenes of a play
I watch my life turning grey
and I'm old
I have sold the fountain of truth for a look back at youth that I was
and in the young man I see
a colourful rainbow that once upon a long time ago was me
but no *** of gold no more colours to hold and nothing more to say
everything
everything
everything is grey.

"when was the last time you were truly happy?" she asked, finally looking up from her notebook. making eye contact, i discovered i much preferred her nose buried in whatever she's writing.
i looked away to break the tension, but that only did so much. her beady eyes bored into my soul, trying to pick apart the girl that sat before her.
it would be an exaggeration to say that i never felt true happiness. i'm sure when i was young, naïve, and unscathed by the world, that i was a happy child. however, to be perfectly honest, i could not remember a specific instance.
in middle school the sickness started and grew inside my chest. concreting my heart in its paralyzing notions. it metastasized to consume my body, everywhere the darkness touched. blinded my eyes and deafened my ears to where i was left alone with it. and it owned my life.
granted, there were days where the sun had managed to peak through the thick blanket of clouds. and there were times where i would smile, i would laugh, i would forget about life for a while. but its presence was constant, following me wherever i went. when i would get lost in daydreams, it was always there to tug me back to reality.
when was the last time i was truly happy?
"i honestly don't know."

As the existential transition is signed and stamped and photographed for our fathers
My little journey a little later than others, an adherence to the structure sure, but where else will we learn
As the papers are handed in, the informal formalities hit home with just enough liquor
And we are torn between insecurity and empowerment
I notice among the bread and beer and bullshitting banter
One of the girls is looking my way a little longer

Her mind draws me in to a natural respect, an intelligence clearly and frankly explored
It is a source of comedy, a source of conversation, and for me I'd be lying if not a source of attraction
Naturally her appearance doesn't hurt the situation, a compliment of warm  smiles and intense colour coupled with an honest sense of self
And a sleek silhouette to hold it in

One thing this town has taught me, by both strangers and the self
It doesn't take much to be ****
The real goal is constructed from the subtle implication of your own taste
That you find that someone who is sexually and socially engaging
And who could add more than trivial ******* to your life
Someone who compliments and compares to you, reconstructing the familiar to something more rewarding

That is not to say *** is pointless
But if you find that right one who acts as your muse, *** is another exploration of that two way empowerment
Clothed and carrying on, you can talk out the simple and fantastical, defining direction as companions who find each other's presence a motivating reassurance
And in the sweat and the snog, after the spontaneous first **** frees you, you can start to suggest new tests of sensuality and mindfucking loveliness

I wonder if all those looks mean what I feel they mean
That she respects me in a way I haven't given her openness for, that I let those compliments go deeper than rain on the wind shield
That all the natural conversation is something for which I should let go of all the defensiveness that has kept me so comfortable in these years of functional formality
That maybe I should take a chance on this one, that cute one standing tall on her identity, in the same time of transition as me
But with less lessons behind her concreting her certainty

Maybe it's worth risking that bitter old ******* rejection just one more time
Maybe I should ask her if there's something
In
That
Really
Inviting
Look.

There are lessons yet to be learnt and mistakes I haven't thought of to be made, but they will come.
Strong and fast I will make memories worth forgetting, but the ones I want to keep won't stay for long.
These thoughts welding with my soul, drifting afloat an ever reaching scenery that I do not recognize.
I question my thoughts they have no answers, if it hangs inconsequential they will start to rot. Creating holes and space no known substance can fix.  

Forever traveling with no end result, I do not ask to know everything, I have no desire to have the knowledge concreting my suspicions that all the mystery has disappeared.
I hope, for it is the only subject I can grasp that makes each day a new beginning.  
I long to concur not wasting a moment pondering anymore the worth of contributing.

Lucious T