What Is It About Men That Make

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.

Listen- All That She Was Then, All That She Is Now, Those Gestures, Everything I Remember But Won't Or Can't Articulate Anymore, The Perfect Words That Are Somehow Made Imperfect When Used To Describe Her And All That Should Remain Unsaid About Her- It Is All Unsupported By Reason. I Know That. But That Enigmatic Calm That Attaches Itself To People In The Presence Of Reason- It's Something From Which I Haven't Been Able To Take Comfort, Not Reliably, Not Since Her.

Being An Insomniac Only Slows Me Down. I Try Not To Write At Night, As I'm Concerned That This Will Affect The Quality.

What Else Is Life From The Time You Were Born But A Struggle To Matter, At Least To Someone?

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.