You so stuck in your ways but so free

You don’t want to be kept but you want to be wanted

You want to be the fantasy but not the reality

To Candor,

the pictures I have of you hold: red solo cups, and bright colored clothes, with a band of smeared whores, on sofas next to oak, walking pavements before reaching places to get bored, and my faces never sure, but my lips always endure- ing the pain of callow and vain crevices of you, Drunk Candor, of you.

some memories my friends narrate, next mornings as I walk away and to class, away into the grass, digging graves for secrets that between us only you and I know but not understand; the curse is in the latter so curse you all on mere comprehension but never enlightenment, curse me who is never enlightened about, How often I wonder with there being so much of you, and so less of your colleagues,

that Drunk Candor you never leave a word out for me to think, Drunk Candor, oh you are so alive sans a drop of alcohol, and even outrageous with some, Drunk Candor, oh you, this isn’t an ode This is just me admitting that, yes, you’re very bold But soon you’ll get old, and your memory will show signs, your friends will resign, and inebriation will fade into a headache of thoughts and Candor will leave back: an empty mind, destroyed, and my honesty just shouts to a void

that will echo back the silence in my voice, and I’ll have to hear the pain without a goddamn choice.