Lie in place.
Scroll through the online catalogue of a million first dates.
Brush my teeth.
Dress for work.
Comb my hair.
Knot it back up.
Undress for bed.
Repeat.

I’ll lose my way of writing.
From the booze and the weed and the smoke and the still nights and the quiet mornings.
Nostalgic for a life I never had.
And yearning for one never to be.
How long can one survive like this?

I’ve felt this pain time and time again.
It’s been examined and written and spoken and twisted and seen all sides of.
This very same pain.
What has become of it?
What have I become from it?
Is the solace in the trees?
Or in the jazz filled room?

Pouring through the pages, with much surprise, it seems no definitive proof the pain itself even exists.
At its densest center there is but a void.
A void of what was wanted.
By both it and I.

All that existed was happiness.
The roaring flame.
The heat in the cold.
Such a tangible and delicate beauty.
Glourious and finite.

So I’m left asking what good is there,
in trying to satiate this endless nothing,
with countless sacrificial embers,
when it cannot be warmed?
Don’t feed the dragon.
Else you’ll only increases its appetite for you.
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