Some 7 years ago or longer: This isn't living on the edge, an adventure; it's diving into certain oblivion. This is what we were, running around in a circle. You drained every bottle in sight, as I got stoned through the night. We talked about everything old and our wishes for everything new. We talked of everything we were hoping for. But really, we were doing nothing and getting nowhere. The misery found comfort in us and we found comfort in the misery. Every day felt too long as every night became the same story over again.
3am, hazy eyed, we fall in love again pretending everything's alright until we wake up again drowning in regrets. And like a song on repeat - get by through the day as best as we can and I'll see you later and it'll all play out the same all over.
I think of how I all of a sudden miss the seemingly, never ending, cloud of smoke that's always surrounding you.
Please, send me postcards from wherever you've been.
Give me phone calls, your voice, something real.
7:38am, while drinking coffee, as you light up your morning smoke or anytime well into the nights, slurred words and all.
Remind me there's more to all of this.
More than only what I know of.
Some people are just home; no matter where or how or what's going on.
a train wreck,
make the best
of it all.
*Wandering the streets of NYC.