and i was just getting hard again

you leave
and i don’t know why
it’s so difficult for me to look at you
as you go

i pour myself some water
in the glass that you left by my couch
and i drink and drink and drink
because i have just quit smoking
(or perhaps because i have no cigarettes)

i’m aware that i cry for all the wrong reasons

i’m aware that my eyes are all fucked-up

i’m realizing that the unfortunate effect
of being so goddamned supericy
is how easily
one
can melt…

and everywhere i seem to go these days
ends up painfully
lukewarm

this year i turned twenty-four
and my birthday came and went:
a swarovski parade through pamplona
while all the bulls were sleeping

is everything this marginal?
is this life in all of its glamour?
a series of futile expectations
and pathetic goodbyes?

softened, i retire the pencil