The Things Worth Noting Down

These are the things I will remember about you:
1) You disliked Hemmingway.
2) You thought our Justice system far too Kantian.
3) You gave me a cool, marble egg for my birthday. One that fit in the palm of my hand.
4) The way dappled light shone down through the trees made your hair look like gleaming redwood.
5) The formation of freckles on your right shoulder.
6) You laughed like a child, and smiled like an old man.
7) You would cry over the sorrows of people you never knew.
I say this all only as a disclaimer to the last thing I will remember:
8) I could have loved you. Maybe I already did.

The Drowning of Sorrows

You say you're okay, but you're sitting there drinking wearing that suit like armour.

The Wish You Were Here

It's four twenty eight in the morning, and I sit in the cold train station on a ribbed steel bench, my head back against the concrete and my feet tucked under me, knees drawn up to my chest. My reporter's notebook pressed against my legs. I write with my left hand, and it bothers the woman next to me, although my elbow hasn't hit her. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line; she sits upright and stiff, with hawk eyes and hawk hands and a hawk nose. If she were writing to someone like you, she wouldn't look so hollow.

The Stubbornly Static Belief

"You think men was meaner then than they are now?" the deputy asked.
The old man looked out at the town. "No," he said. "I think people are the same from the day God first made one."

The Bargaining

All I ask is that you let me spend an eternity feeling this way, before you leave.

The Worst You've Ever Felt

I'd kiss you, even though you're sick. Even though you'd make me sick.

The Fallen Masses

Two or three really great writers have discussed the idea of how much trust you must put in the world in order to even get out of bed in the morning.
I didn't really believe them until I woke up one day and fell through the floor.

The Choices

It was never my intention to get my thoughts stuck on anybody. If it were up to me, I would listen to sad music, drink, and stare out of my window at the mountains. I'd be fine reading William Carlos Williams alone without care or affection. I'd be irresponsible and happy with that. I don't mess anybody up that way.
This wasn't supposed to happen. I'm not supposed to grow up yet. I'm drinking to the bottom of bottles, trying to get away from any sort of possibilities. Possibilities are debilitating. Sadness is comforting. My four walls, those white blinds, the light setting on the hospital. These are my reality now. Not your maybes and almosts.