The trajectory was perhaps preset in those last moments,
when the camera flashed before the dance floor on the old creative
after a best friend got married, but we no longer talk often—
not because of the wedding—but because I can no longer do it.
I’ve become incapable of casual conversations and meeting places;
ironic since it was he who gave me this platform, site, and office spaces.
This wasn’t always hard, Jack. This is how you’ve made it.
In the years since you started writing, don’t you see the correlation?
You turned away everything and everyone in favor of self-fulfillment
and gone inwards, and lined the walls with regret filled cement,
which will remain there until happy endings are replaced with a reset.
I’m afraid this ain’t it. Tucked away all of my fan mail in a carved out
dictionary used to store my memory-stash, saved until the day
I swear an oath or your obituary. Please don’t make me choose.
Didn’t I say you’d be back, changed sites, but still as spiteful?
Your writing, like the future, is anything but insightful.
It’s a sitcom turned tragedy, where you plan ahead, but
stay the same, because you can’t make the move.
You make me feel like lifeless plastic,
like a perfume tester strip, once loved, now garbage.
You were always more head than heartache. I hate you.
I never should’ve told you I was finally doing better.
You take everything positive and turn it into it-could-happen-never.
When I found you, you were trying your hand at ethnic TV,
which failed, leading you back to the well of a red door escape
down the meta rabbit hole. Now you find solace reviewing flicks
and writing crime noir. Who are those scripts for? Who’s watching?
Who’s reading? Who’s waiting? I guarantee you that she’s not.
She’s happier without me thinking that we were promising, and
five years later, it’s all I’m really good for, or all I still really know.
You’re better off in a world where lightning has
a better chance of striking you than love would.
I’m trapped in a distinct maze, waiting for
aligned stars that shift like everyday—
—and no one knows what they’ll get when they click
on this page, so blow out our candles until next year.
—if you’re still here.
Speak for yourself, no one—
—will miss you?
I’m sorry that you had to read us both fighting.
I didn’t go to the house party even though I was invited,
because I’ve become people-scared and gatherings don’t get me excited.
I went to sleep early, so the next day I could sleep in, but
I woke up at eight thirty thinking it was eleven on the weekend.
I’m mentally exhausted. Aren’t you tired of reading this blog yet?
I write snake skin lines, that shed away after they’ve been posted.
I’ve become unrecognizable to myself. I’m curious: what do you see?
You all gave me something I never had before: desire, but now I’ve just
got crow’s feet listening to Joe Black, hoping to have my own
someone else while never being someone else’s someone else.