Vent

You

I'd never thought I'd credit so much of my development to one person.
But, as I lay here staring at my static ceiling fan, I can't help but wonder what could have been.
Geography creates monsters. We can't stretch ourselves as far as we would like, and it turns loving partners into the worst possible versions of themselves in their partners eyes.
Dammit.
I wonder what could be, the next time i see you.
If, somehow, that happens.
A plane ticket.
A bar hop.
A fever dream, a doorbell.

Wishful thinking is for saps. It's the cruel torture of never getting what your heart wants most. Guess that's all I have.
Your eyes, man... your eyes.
I couldn't describe them with every word known to mankind.
Aurora Borealis has nothing on you.
You're not perfect. Not by a fucking long shot.
Nor am I. But in the few moments I shared with you, I felt, in a way, home.
But home is not my home.
Kicked out, cold.
The streets are my house and I so gracefully dance the curbs, passing by my residency with hopeful eyes.
My arms like water, my tongue like needles.
Bound to the ground by desire, and disgusting hope.
Repeating the same moves over and over like some twisted ballet.
I can't dance for shit.
Maybe that's why that crimson door stays locked.
Ever again will I smell the cigarette smoke carpet of my home.
I won't feel the walls being comfortably close to me.
It's for the best, I tell myself.
Standing for the ovation, letting car's pass by me as I repeat the same broken dance.

Oh well. Let the show Carry on.