Dark Poetry Prose Poetry May 12, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

9am wednesday 5-12-04

goodbye isn't something that happens to us. or even something we do. it's always there. it's the pulse in everything we want or love. it's the sarcasm in every reply. the tiny flaw in every smile. it's the discomfort in every tender embrace. it's that hint of sadness in even the happiest face.

it's how i know when i love someone. if i can feel it there between us. when interlocking bodies are as close as they can ever be. i know then because still goodbye puts its infinite distance between us.

it's the space between every heartbeat. that moment it takes to decide will life go on or is this really godbye.

10:30pm 5-12-04 wednesday

desire treads in icy footprints. loneliness walks on achilles heels. i'm stuck watching you leave even before you know that's what you're doing. it's just the burden of being too honest with yourself. just the result of knowing how little you're actually worth.

truth is, it's been hurting all this while that i was pretending it wasn't. truth is often a liar. a coerced testimony in your life's long trial.

i've nothing left to do except accept. realize that these hands are ghosts. that anything i can grab at just passes right through them. admit that i want the connection, but am not to know it. that sex will always be just that. and friendship cannot come from a phone. that whatever i thought i could've felt for you doesn't matter. i was just a distraction. and now again you've found your way back home.

i still write thinking that somewhere, to some eyes it might make sense. i still write like a dying flame grasping for oxygen.

but there's nothing there. nothing left. only what i remember. only what lies i fell into. and so many goodbyes that swore they wouldn't, but still ensued.

i don't wonder anymore. don't want. just think of all that might've been and hate how well it teased me. i don't hope to love. or be. i don't look for friends who've better things. i just think of how useless it all was. and hate how stupid i have been.

solitude carves its path. a sharp machete against what hope i've had. like love. and friends. and all those fleeting promises they make. how it's just another means for them to take.

i don't believe you ever really loved me. not now like this. cause if you did, this wouldn't be how it is.

i don't know that i ever did. what reason did i ever have to. what reason do i have to now that i need it so much. what indication do i have when the lights go out and i'm alone like this.

what shall i believe now that the end does come in endless repetition. whom shall i love now that i've exhausted all reasons to ever do such a foolish thing again. whom shall i call or answer now that every conveersation only instigates its inevitable end.

you never loved me. you loved yourself. and how it felt. just like every person is when the opportunity presents. no one has ever really been loved. no one has any real friends. only unlike me, they have the benefit of not knowing this.