don't feel much like talking

and musicians (especially drummers) and boys from london are a pain in my ass.

tired, a green notebook full of little stories from last week, feeling sick from eating mostly pie for days.

finally no longer hanging on to any of it
a tally for me, to mark this time

i see the remains of that place
the edges, the shadow of who we used to be
i told him he was free to ride, but he lingers
breaking down, she taunts him, the fool
another returns,
he stands by the gate, the flare of danger but only when i hear his voice
round the side, but first a vision of scarred youth, of perfection lost before it ever got a chance
i will break his heart
back to the river, i no longer want him to stay
i have left them to float downstream, to a place forgotten unseen
pause for one who is not even one,
how light in the dark can change our minds
who remains?
my friend under the tree who returns a shell
the one who gave my life to another, and left me only with mountains and fears
he brings me a painting of the moon in exchange, but it will be too big to keep inside
and three more
i mail him my love packed amongst letters and unfinished chores
to the moors, to the hills, we will hide and pretend
nostalgic (as i said to him) for a time when my credit cards felt like lottery winnings
still one
still here
still friends
and all