I have forgotten what you look like
Your smell and touch
Mind scatters when pulled to retrieve you
Memories mirage like  lingering smoke from fire
Funny how time no longer hiccups in anticipation of you
You are the forgotten tune hummed
Beautiful and decadent in space
You are sprinkles of notes for greater melodies to come

I am sad again, but I have no idea why.
Living keenly with an idea of what I want out of life.
My favorite season, autumn, is upon us.
And my writing is frequent and fulfilling.
So why am I sad again and why am I an orange juice, spilling?

I miss the days where drugs meant fun. Where ridicule was a pasttime.
Between best friends, and Windows didn't force updates.
The Internet was an escape around which Identity was ignored.
You were your username,
and you were too full to be bored.

I am sad again despite selling two poems to a couple patrons
during an open mic night I frequent.
I hadn't been much, chose instead to spend
my time writing and feeling sorry for myself.
Now that I'm out again and re-befriending familiar faces.
It almost feels like belonging is as lost as context between the spaces.
I'm stark raving sad and I've only just arrived.
One year finally after the middle-age of twenty five.
If I make it until January consider me your unlucky kin.
A day without morbidity, how long has it since last been?

Too long;
So long, too.

i've never been so grateful
to lack the courage to be honest
than when we spoke at long last
and you revealed you'd been deceitful

to find out that to you
i was purely an experiment
to see if you would feel something
when i was in it for the sentiment
and loved you without reservation
unaware of your motivation
was like a reinforcement, yet again
that all my struggles are in vain
and that i'll wind up, in the end,
trying to excise my feelings
and my shattered heart to mend

but if these things you say are true
and it's pointless for me to go on wanting you
when you don't want me, too,
why is it that every time
your blood-alcohol balance is tipped
you seem to find me sublime
more than merely a pasttime
and, time after time,
into my arms - my bed - you've slipped

because i know you know the phrase
in a dead language, nevertheless
if "in vino veritas"
then maybe you need to reassess

or maybe that old saying
contains less truth than i had hoped
and now that your words have stopped ricocheting
like a bullet cavernating in my ribcage
it would appear that i haven't coped
and how could i after that level of stun
but now that the damage is done
those wounds should eventually fade
evaporate off my skin
like dew in the face of the rising sun