If I'm free I'll never pass up a late night coffee session with Mike.
It gives me a hug of comfort of when things were simpler in high school.
Before we talked of job interviews and salaries
And pretty girls with blue jean eyes in Georgia and Canada who don't pay much attention to you.
But when we talked about Madden and shows
And pretty girls who lived only 10 minutes away
For those 45 minutes when I'm sipping on that muddy, 4 AM Waffle House coffee.
I'm 16 again.
And I'm at home.

When the winter left and Canada had finally warmed up, we both had wished it stayed around for just awhile longer.
So we could have mustered up some more thoughts about how we would apologize to one another.
Before the particles of the magnolia trees and white trillium had tickled the sensors of our nose and had made us forget about one another.
I can feel the Carolina dog days of summer approaching while the last of your snow finally turns to a muddy water.
Anima gemella, you promised to be in my arms come spring time.

I tried to hate you in the fairest way a man could hate a woman.
Hatred because she destroyed the name of love, dissolved destiny, and distorted all poetry.
Enough false hatred so I would never have to speak to you again.
Making even the greatest -- Poe, Neruda, Bukowski, Plath and the others all live in vain.
But even I knew that wasn't possible.

Not defeated by the fact that you can't love me back
But by the feeling that you're the only person I've ever loved
And that I'll never get to feel the warmth of your body in a hotel room bed in the center of the city.
And that you'll forever live through a 3.5 inch screen however many states and countries away.
And how every day, whether you're listening or not.
I will tell you that I love you, whether or not you love me.

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.

The thought of waking up one morning last August
And you were no longer waiting for me outside my door
But, I'm coming back to you
How wonderful, how sweet.

The thought of staying up late at night
And going to visit you after a cup of coffee with Mike
Waving and saying hello,
And you always waved back.

The thought of a late night romance
And you being a pervert and watching
But that's alright, I forgive you
We all get a little curious sometimes.

The thought of me missing you
Wondering if you have been missing me.
I know you can forget people so easily,
But I'll stop by and visit when I get back home.

I'm awake.
But the world is asleep.
4 am.
Mixed emotions.
Loneliness.
So many people in every direction at all times.
But I'm disconnected.
I thought I loved it, but I hated it.
3 weeks.

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

Drunk off my fifth whiskey sour and third shot of cinnamon flavored whiskey after a southern rock concert I dragged my friends to on a school night.
Finally home and lying in bed at 4 am.
I swear this is the third time I've seen this episode of Sportscenter tonight.
I stare with soaked eyes at pictures of you and I'm missing those Japanese pearls of a smile.
The ones my grandfather brought home from the war but were stolen when a thief entered my parents home back in 04 the night after the Sox finally won it all.
I'm missing the hint of a Torontonian accent I'd catch you say on certain words.
I miss the times we never met.
And the weekend trips we had planned to meet.
I miss the money that I put aside halfway through my trip to Southern California to come see you that's now been spent on ***** and Waffle House.
The fact that the cheerleaders from your university came into my work tonight and that Rob Ford is everywhere on TV doesn't help.
Now all I do is check and make sure you're alright on the last social media website you haven't blocked me from.
And now all I can do is call out of work and turn my TV off.
And I only hope that you have found someone that is making you happy.
Someone into cooler music with a bigger record collection.
Someone who isn't as jealous that you send photos to all the boys.
Someone who helps you through all your teenage problems at the age of 23.
Someone who accepts you for who and what you are.
I can only hope he rearranges his plans and changes for you.

I didn't tell you about him.
In fact only a few knew.
We were pretty close throughout our school years.
A guy we all loved.
I remember driving through Turbeville when I got the call about him.

You see there's this kid.
He took a shotgun and he killed himself.
Couldn't take life they said.
But life couldn't take him.
I remember hearing about it on an August beach night.

And we had plans to see each other that summer.
****, we were in class a couple weeks earlier.
I sat behind you and we'd share stories with the group about girls, partying, and our friends
I remember hearing about it at my job
I got yelled at by my boss that night for being slow
Whenever I'm home I visit the place you left us all,
I drive by slowly with my windows down thinking of your last moments,
Looking for the flowers we planted, but the seasons have taken them.

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.

Your lifeless body with your unclipped toe nails and your tiny feet
Your old, grey face with a look of defeat
Sadness came straight through my door
When I saw you had collapsed on the living room floor
I just wanted to hold you one last time
To try and shake these sad feelings of mine
I gave you a kiss and I knew I wouldn't get one back
I for sure knew, it would be my last
Thank you for always being a great listener when I needed you most
Unfortunately in 14 hours I leave for the west coast
I'll take the lessons you taught and the love that you gave
And spread it far and wide until I reach my own grave
When I reach that grave you'll know that your spirit did not die
But there's a hint of it in everyone I've met worldwide
And when they meet others you will too know
That your very spirit has helped them grow

I'm starting to pack everything.
I'm giving up.
I'm giving in.
And you were right when you said I'd go in and out alone.

When you find the time to call,
Make it short,
Make it sweet,
Because I won't be back come fall.

Came to this place with a lot of promises.
Left a job.
Left a few friends.
And I'm coming back with a broken heart and soul.

You know that I hate to cut you short and I hate that I have to go
Don't forget that I still love your roar on an autumn Saturday afternoon
And don't forget that I still love the people you have shown me
But darling, don't you see? I'm just trying to find my way back home.

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.

3:31 AM on a Thursday night and I get it,
"I'm sorry"
You tell me halfheartedly from a beat up old phone your mother gave you six years ago.
Forever swimming further away from me in an ocean of bourbon and seaweed filled bowls.
My legs shaking
And my eyes watering
On what I'll blame on the southern cold that comes once a year.
About as often as you do.
We can catch up
And talk about our dysfunctional lives when we were 18 and closer
We can make up
And we can apologize for making things much more complicated than we should have.
But we'll realize all of this has just expired and gone stale

The day the dead rose and walked the streets,
We fell in like.
We took to the beach and sat under the sky.
And we pretended to be astrologists.
And we pretended to be in love.
Just for that one night.
We missed the concert.
And now we pretend to miss each other.

You moved back from Vegas
Moved out there with your love
But four years was too much
You told me to come over and comfort you
And I did
One thing led to another
And a heart ended up breaking
We still talk from time to time

I use to be funny to you,
I remember.
But these days I'm not fooling anyone.
You use to tell me, "I love you"
But now you don't because you think I may "take it the wrong way"
That's fine.
We can still make plans to get out of this place if you want
And we can talk whenever
And I'll lie and say no feelings are left
And that I'm alright.

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

I wanted to feel something
When I couldn't feel anything
It was the first time in months that reminded me
Life is not painless

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.

No one will read these words and I’m content with that. If some of my friends perhaps reads these then they may think some of these words are about them. By all means I hope they think so and I hope they ask me. If I’m feeling brave enough, I’ll tell you, if not I’ll just lie and say “No, it’s about someone else.” So how will you know if I’m lying or not? That’s for you to figure out. Writing is best interpreted by the reader.

My days as a newspaper boy
in Los Angeles County
With an unkempt beard
and long hair,
Lasted about as long as I expected

I looked awfully sketchy at 3 am roaming the streets of Norwalk and Downey,
or maybe,
I fit in well with the late night diner crowd of the area.
There wasn’t much money left to be made, mostly immigrants and parents needing a third job to pay the rising area rent are here.
The only ones left to throw papers to are aging Asian parents who live vicariously through their children.
And they’re dying off fast.

Getting back at 5 am
and waking the house,
back up at nine to take you to work.
Up the 105
to the 605
We pass through Bellflower
and coast to your theater in Cerritos.
No coffee
Yet
Waits on the stereo
The windows are down
no AC
Your feet are on the dash
You’re nursing a Gatorade
to cure this morning’s hangover.
I am at ease.

You don’t remember moments like these until there’s two hours left in your shift and your boss reminds you he needs those reports.
With a clean shaven face and short hair.
This has lasted longer than I expected.