Why do I not get over people? The horse is bones by now but I get some many evenings where my fingers twitch for the whip. There's nothing more to say; I just forget more details. It just becomes abstract. I share with you a hope that I can't ignore. I bite my nails about it. You try to kill it and I'll never forgive you. You still looked for me. You are the worst stranger because I cannot believe in you. I'm not much different; only tired, more dead. Holding pieces of stained glass to my chest for their sunlight. Reserved, poised. Authentic, but I get less pleasure from it. Careful in saying your name, matter-of-fact, I get strange bitter dreams about you. I try every day to be the sunlight you were -- someone has to be, now. I hate some blonde I don't know. I'm angry at how irrefutably in the past it is. I'm ok because I forget what it felt like. But I know what I did (like when I visited that alcove in December or the nights up crying like finding nothing in the city or just some blood but I gave it to you). I have angry words to say and things to show you and resolutions. I don't feel my tears anymore, they feel cathartic because there's nothing to be done except say this again
