Writing

you are of another mother

I knew you before

before that

man

I loved you before

now I'm left away

searched

and you're stopped

and hurt

I hope to love you again

avidly existential,

dying words essential,

they're floating through my mind,

like an unfrozen astronaut,

cryogenically prepared

not to find

a program,

for this forgotten play

You wake up in a white room. Not really a room, exactly, but it is a space. You think. You are there, so it must be, right? In front of you is a couch with a person on it.

the party's over;

i'll walk myself home,

silent on the stairs,

wake up the next morning,

i'll lie and say i don't care. 

the party's over;

you don't know what goes on

My life is a play whose writer has forgotten their motivation. The lines of the script are blurred, somewhat resembling the bricks on the wall I sit beside now.

I write this now, in loving memory of a man who has not yet left us.