Another late night awakening
And once again more thoughts of you
More thoughts of the lover that now has a new lover
More thoughts of a girl that I can't be with in Wilmington or Georgia or Dallas
More thoughts of your blue skin as it touched mine as you felt lifeless
More thoughts of the things I loved in high school that now don't mean much to me
More thoughts of you ringing the doorbell and I still haven't let you in after all these years
More thoughts of nothing new to say with old friends
More thoughts of only being able to write late at night
I think I'll finally open the door for you now
Goodnight.

Petite, tan skinned girl who sleeps in my bed every other night.
You ask for one of my shirts in which ends up being like a blanket to you due to my morbid obesity.
And I hand you one of my friend's bands shirts.
You put it on and we lay in bed and I tell you a story about hanging with them in hopes that maybe you'll think I'm a little cooler than I really am.
You'll pretend to be drunk off the ten ounce beer we shared as you put your arms around me.
I'll hold your hand and you'll tightly hold back.
The kind of tight that's just loose enough to let the person escape so they can catch their flight home.
Knowing that you won't see them again for another two years.
Knowing that maybe you won't see them at all.
Knowing that maybe I don't even know you at all.
We'll talk for awhile.
But then you'll gently slither across the bed, like you're forever escaping the wrath of an angry father
You'll come back to me throughout the night like my grandmother so often does.
But then I wake up and find it was all a dream.
That all my friends' bands have broken up.
That I'm still morbidly obese.
That my brother and my best friend live way too far away.
That my grandmother has been dead for twelve years.
And that you, petite, tan skinned girl who sleeps in my bed every other night.
You have a lover.

I can sing you songs about being in pubs
About all my friends and all the bands we listen to together
But the sad realization is I don’t hang in pubs
And all my friends live in other states

The songs we all sang together
Well, now they're stuck on scratched CDs in a 2000 Sonata in a junkyard on the other side of the city

How I long for the nights like these
the times when I can muster up the courage to write my feelings down
These nights become rarer and rarer for me.
Sitting on my half sunk in sofa convincing myself to read these live tomorrow night
The kitchen light is on, the porch light is off
Hoping my neighbors peer in my windows from across the street
Maybe they will see my loneliness at 4:30 in the morning.
A young man in boxers and a white t-shirt glaring at his laptop screen with a frown
While his mother sleeps in the room over
Who will wake up in 45 minutes and ask me, "son, why are you still up? Do you realize I'm starting my day?"
And I mutter to myself, "if only you knew"
She will offer me coffee and I'll politely decline and then she'll head to work
And I'll remain here, drunk off my thoughts, high off the Vicodin my doctor prescribed me.
Wondering, what time will I get to sleep?
Where have my friends gone?
But most importantly, how and where you are these days.
Oh, how I long for the nights like these

Every time I see that picture.
I fall in love with you all over again.
But then I realize.
You never even stumbled in love with me.

All my poems.
And all my songs.
And all my thoughts.
Are about you.
All my friends.
And all my memories of the past two years.
And all my talks.
Are about you.
Slowly forgetting about you.
Slowly forgetting about time.
Slowly forgetting about everything.
Or so I say.
685 days.
Someday.