Unworthy Substitute

I think sadness has no end, unless it's just my inclination for tragedies, prone to sadness like Hemingway, or a Shakespeare play. Maybe it's just a sad tale that compels me because of my fascination with sadness as emotion. But yes, I think sadness has no end.

They are just the same old daydreams anymore, wild little fancies that only confuse my brain. They think they're real is the funny thing, trying to convince me they have a home in there because they always paint these romantic, elaborate pictures. I never know what to make of them except, There they are again. They are pictures of perfection. They always are. They have no flaws, like a girl in tight jeans, or a cover-girl smile, one that impales, like a pillar of light. It can change the way you see and think and feel. I see these things next to what is only now my aging face and mind. I never realized how vain I was until recently. There's a touch in here, I guess, a thing that just keeps coming and going, and all the real things that happen, the seeds that get planted turning all those real things into pretend. There really is such a thing as time travel. It happens to me all the time. Wait. Listen. See? I imagine perfections, maybe that's the trouble, the things I care most about, dream about, long to be outside all the ghosts who live in here, making things more complicated, more confusing than they need to be. See, here, they have no end. It will go on and on until the end of me.

Sometimes, she'll pay me a visit at work, and maybe I'll just be on my way out the door to lunch, and the timing will be perfect. Or I'll come home and she'll be there, waiting for me, just to surprise me, say hello. She never gets mad or frustrated with me. She's always glad to see me. It's just that romantic black magic that has swallowed my life lately, but sometimes I keep thinking I'm just getting old, poor little mouse boy, and I have had a hard time making beautiful memories these days. I don't want a new one to replace an old one. I just want the walks, the talks, and the sharing, the sharing, mainly. It's all meaningless otherwise, a whole bunch of containing nothing. Not me, not the way I am. I don't have time for that. No more invisible memories, barren lifeless memories. Who has time for that?

I'm not as sad and lonely as I used to be, despite my fetish for tragedies. There's still stuff to do in here, better alone, sometimes, but still alone, with no one to talk to but you. I touch you, see, and you are not flesh and warm. You do not make my heart skip a beat. You just lie there flat, with the ink on your back, waiting for me to fill you.