An Open Letter to a Conversation I Will Have With the Next Girl I Love
I sat around tonight. With the ghosts and the rocks in the yard. We sat around tonight. And out of the thinking we realized that one of us doesn't care. That one was I. You looked at me with hollow eyes and an agape mouth as I tried to explain that it was just a hole you filled. You were a nothing. You were a replacement for something that I had once dreamed. I am tortured and all you do is fill me with substance. While that's nice, I don't believe in you. I never did. I never will. You are pumpkin seeds. You are nothing more than disposable stomach. You can look at me amongst the grass and Los Angeles. You can swig in my tears but you won't ever get to feel me laying beside you and holding you as though you were mine. You'll only get to feel me satisfy me and maybe you. If you were smart you would know it wasn't you I was after. It was me the whole time.
You fall apart all you wish to. You cry and mumble til the cows home. You can stand and sulk there waiting for me or for him or for whomever. But, they aren't coming. We don't exist. There is just you. There's just you and the rain and somewhere in there is a dream of New York. Somewhere in your little head you dream of a Volvo life. Somewhere down the road you can see lights blinking the same way they would on your wedding day. All I can do to keep from laughing is to have sex with you. All I can do to keep from making you a joke is to bring you into my life and hence have to defend myself with your presence. Die dream of nothing. Leave me be with my reality. Leave me to find and search all over again. Running along, chasing the new, the way a crazy man chases the sunset.