I write when 
I’m like this 

because writing is 
I guess my
own best friend 

it’s here when 
not for long 
but here nonetheless 
when nobody else 
bothers to be 

I write when 
I’m like this 
sad like this 
little like this 

Have I ever 
really ever existed 
at all for 
anything any one 
thing that would 
ever give evidence 
to my being 
ever is gone 
whether at the 
hands of someone 
or of time 
I’m essentially a 
ghost real in
name only imagine 
what that’s like 
having lived long
only in memory 
one year last
is all I 
have and all 
I will ever 

I led
you followed 
in this 
we danced
this tango
this samba 
until the 
music stopped 
what then 
were we
just two 
bodies clinging 
like clothes 
on line 
now twisted 
and drying 
hands pulled 
us apart 
unclipped folded 
put away
to be 
worn again 
one day
for one 
more dance 
with another 

So pretty 
he was
pretty being
my eye 
not his 
for he
thought not 
interesting that 
convincing him 
he was 
even though 
I thought 
I tired
of thinking 
for two 
and surrendered
deciding that 
it was 
just easier 
to not 
just like 
he did 
causing us 
to didn’t 
after all

We’ve all experienced 
our own tragedies 
I’ve had mine 
you’ve had yours
sometimes at the 
hands of others 
sometimes at ours 
funny thing about 
tragedies they always 
seem most important 
to us and 
certainly more important 
than anyone else’s 
that’s a hint 
I think that 
maybe just maybe 
many aren’t really 
tragedies at all 
but experiences that 
we had that 
we decided were 
tragic when in
fact they were 
just living life