There was that time once,
when we stood out on the tracks. You looked your way and I looked mine. We sat down beside them, then.. in a cemetery.
It was an old battlefield, the freight trains rolled through it several times a day. We came that night to use a ouija board to talk to old ghosts of the war.
But all we found was each other.
The grass was soft, there,
above the bodies and amidst the memories,
those which weren't ours, sleeping around us.
Their songs filled the air.
Ghost songs and warm thoughts.
My heart was sad because what we were doing was forbidden.
We should not have been there together.
But you were so very much you,
and I was too very much me.
We made our own memories, didn't we?
Yes. We very much did.
I miss hearing you sing that song you wrote.
"The sky is falling down, I saw it kiss your mouth.
Did you ever stop to question why?"
I thought maybe you wrote it for me.
I still don't know. It seemed like it was for me.
You didn't say, though.
I can't remember the rest of the words now.
This is what time does.
It steals memories and replaces them with regret.
I am a soft, glistening tear in the eye of a lost midnight.
I miss those mid nights.
I watch your cloud dreams from down here now,
while you are floating around up there.
Do you float, though?
Can you walk?
Do you see my grandmother?
Does she tell you that I loved you?
Did you know it it when you were here?
Did I?
It is true. I did and I do.
These words, I can't control them.
They are spilling out
into the sheets of this day,
wrapped around my head bed.
A head bed? What the hell is that?
You tell me. You are the one lying in it.
Do you ever notice how if you are lying in your bed,
it's also as if you are "lying" in your bed.
The words make it into a truth.
Your bed is a lie. Such poetry.
Maybe these are just wasted thoughts.
I am a lunatic writing a story.
I meant for this to be poetic and now I've gone and ruined it. This poem of today on my paper of homework of life. Drink my wine and call it stupid. Call my stupid and give it some wine.
I don't even drink wine. I don't even drink at all. It's bad for me. It's bad for YOU. Quit it.
Or don't. Whatever, it is not my decision to make. If you want to drink yourself to death after a bad night, die in your own vomit and never speak to me again, then that's on you. But I forgive you, almost. Not quite there yet.
I wish you had not gone that way, my sweetheart friend.
Your breaking yourself broke me. FYI.
If you do see my grandmother, please tell her that I miss her, and that I miss Grandad, too. And one day, if I'm good enough, I guess.. I hope.. I will be there, too. And it will not be as awkward as I think, I hope, I really hope.
I hope to have you there and to have him there as well. All my hims will be there, and maybe they all will get along.
Maybe they'll all just send me to Hell where I most likely belong.
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