Quarter life crisis

“Forevers are for fairytales,” he said with a smile,
while I swam in the river and drowned in denial,
as you savor the flavor of last night’s regrets,
tasting faintly of carelessness and stale cigarettes,
like the sound of your heels on wet pavement cement,
of slurred statements and syllables left broken and bent.
See I write it all down, but it won’t seem to stick,
like water through fingers, elusive and slick,
like a sky that was clear that gets shrouded in clouds,
the thoughts were once there but can’t be spoken aloud;
you ask, “How’s the view?” like a casual question,
that’s like asking how to map out the stars’ constellations,
like asking for the color of intense isolation,
like expecting an answer when you want a confession.
And spurning and yearning can burn to the bone,
but I’m learning the benefits of being alone –
with no shoulder to cry on or hand left to hold,
brash and abrasive and chronically bold,
avoiding warmth of a body to stay frozen and cold,
staying fragile in youth to avoid getting old.
So I’ll laugh at your ignorance and limited mind,
I’d donate some insight but I don’t have the time,
see I’m living my life the way you commit a crime,
you can have your opinion, while the world can be mine.

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