Perhaps People Ought To Feel With More

He Sits In His Car At Traffic Lights On His Way Out Sometimes And Tries To Estimate How Many Times He Has Sat Here, Waiting At These Traffic Lights On His Way Somewhere Without You, Hoping To Meet Someone With The Capacity To Consign You To An Anecdote, To Be Eventually Confused With Others

You Would Love The Way He Sees You. He Uses You As A Weapon Against Himself And Not Merely Because You Did

When You're Younger, You Tend To Be Reckless About Trying To Find Out Who You Are And What You Can Do And Should Do. But As You Get Older You Become More Accepting Of Yourself, And With That Comes Greater Contentment.

It's Like The Smell Of Burned Toast. You Made The Toast. You Looked Forward To It. You Even Enjoyed Making It, But It Burned. What Were You Doing? Was It Your Fault? It Doesn't Matter Anymore. You Open The Window, But Only The Very Top Layer Of The Smell Goes Away. The Rest Remains Around You. It's The Walls. You Leave The Room, But It's On Your Clothes. You Change Your Clothes, But It's In Your Hair. It's On The Thin Skin On The Tops Of Your Hand. And In The Morning, It's Still There.

I Hold Him To My Chest. My Love For Him Is The Only Unequivocally Good Thing I Know Is Always There Inside Of Me. It Is The Reason I Should Be Spared All That Is Coming, The Only Reason.