I thought it was different this time. I tried to do the right thing.

ma ora salutandotiaffogo.

(ma prima, la cena)

because your kiss

(your kiss)

is on my list

because your kiss

(your kiss)

i can't resist

because your kiss is on my list...

of the best things in life.

it's like everyone's in some club,

 and i'm not invited.

and yet i don't care.

 but i do.

it's when i don't care that i end up caring.

barb says when i say i don't care that it's not true.

the club wasn't that great to begin with.

 but it was a club.

and for a moment i was in.

and it was great.

and i knew it at the time, too.

i just feel too much about things.

i'm tired of feeling.

i'm tired of people.

i'm tired of the daily grind.

you know, some people are sad and they don't want to live anymore.

like chuck who i see in my dreams though i never knew him well.

who i cried over. if only selfishly.

that's not how i react.

i'm sad because i want to live more.

i feel as if i am being hindered in my liveability.

that might not be a word.

i just want to live more.

fuller.

more real.

closer and more honest.

happier.

i was happier. i've been happier.

and it just isn't working out the way i planned it.

but that isn't true either. i didn't plan it.

i've never planned it.

but i guess i keep hoping for this thing.

and it's thwarted by different things.

it's just the same story every time.

and in the end, because i can't have the life i want 

or the life i feel i'm made to be living,

i end up not desiring a whole lot of life at all.

i'm tired and i'd like to have a nap now.

don't disturb me until the end of this 

stupid hot summer.

forse in un sogne

i love the way a dream

can make me feel

so intangibly close to you

though i haven't seen you

or even heard your voice

    in months.

i must have reached yesterday

some kind of quota

in the time allotted towards

my persistent thoughts surrounding you

to earn the right

to the simple sweet surprise

of having you cast in my dream last night,

and in turn my groggy

shy recollections of it 

this morning.

i was in your kitchen, i think,

talking with your mother

when in you walked, bag-laden,

sandy fauxhawk

blue button-down, bright eyed as always;

and staring into my coffee,

being found by you this way

even in my own dream

off-guard and unsuspecting,

my face burned scarlet.

why is it that writing like this always makes me cry.

a lone.

I am not sure 

if I want 

to speak 

to anyone

ever 

again.

I seem to mess it up.

Continually.

I seem to betray whilst I'm lecturing about integrity and loyalty.

Honor.

These things nobody talks about.

To whom do I owe my loyalty?

To whom can I give my loyalty?

Who will accept it?

Does anyone even want it?

I get so mixed up.

I've gotten so mixed up.

I just want to do the right thing.

Always I am trying so hard to do the right thing.

To not hurt someone that I think is good.

To not hurt anyone.

To protect myself from those whose intentions are sinister.

And to warn the ones who don't know it.

To do good in secret, so nobody knows it was me.

I want to be very good to those that I care about and love.

I find that really, there are so few.

And that they hurt me.

And then I bail.

Unless their last name is the same as mine.

Then I stay and put up with anything.

Things I would never take from anyone else.

I feel alone.

I am intelligent and logical enough to know that I am not. I know that I am not. But I feel it. And maybe this is what I need. But why? Why should I need this? Why have I earned this? 

I don't want it anymore.

I want communion.

I want fellowship.

I want warmth.

I want accountability.

I want to be nurtured.

I want to feel safe.

I want it to be real.

I want to give myself.

I don't want to explain anything. I don't want to have to.

I'm holding back and waiting until it feels right.

Until anything feels right.

Is it normal to want to escape everything?

To disappear and reappear somewhere else?

Someone else.

I'm a stranger.

I've wandered out of the store in someone else's clothes.

Holding someone else's coffee cup.

I don't recognize my vehicle, and my pillowcase smells foreign.

The rest of me must be dwelling happily

somewhere else.

While I inhabit this life here.

Only alone feels right.

Only separation and isolation.

Keeping everything to myself.

As if there's really so much to keep.

I'm small, insignificant.

Losing myself in too many hours of useless work.

Rushing from place to place.

Barely eating.

My coffee grows cold before I can drink it.

Twice a day, and I throw it out.

Too many questions to be answered.

Phone calls to be made.

Pages to be read.

Responsibilities I cannot fulfill.

Though I do nothing but attempt to.

And through this, 

I don't return your phone calls.

I tell you I can't see you anymore.

I've grown irritated with your turn of phrase.

Only alone seems to come naturally.

And yet it feels so terribly wrong.

Goodbye, I've left you for nothing else.

                        just now as I was 

staring into the end of the first 

fireplace fire of the winter,

and the room was dark and cold 

everywhere but the hearth

where I sat, and the only sound

I could hear was that of the fish

tanks babbling on as the guppies 

hovered sleeping near the rocks,

I was brought to another time

in less than an instant, as tends 

to happen to me during some

peaceful solitary activities, and 

the delicate perfectly cylindrical 

dying flame undulating at the underside

of the thinner of two logs reminded 

me of when handwashing

time always would become a game.

with soap being wasted and 

mirrors being splashed and

shirts becoming soaked and

heads hung at the sight of Mom.

one of my favorite things to do

in the kitchen sink was to turn 

the faucet to the exact spot

where the steam was as

solid and clear as an icicle,

before the tiny screen at its mouth

could break it into noisy whitewater.

I'd place one finger in 

the stream and feel its

weight and split it into

two. for long stretches of time 

this kept me occupied.

and I smile thinking of how

silly yet charmingly innocent it is 

that a child can be so amused by

something so small. that a 

stream of water and her finger's 

effect on it make bring her joy.

and then I smile again realizing

that ironically, in all these years of 

alleged cynicism and maturation, 

so little has actually changed.