Untitled (March-ish 07)

(Sweet loss of self emo poem written at a really shitty time. I started it in my head sitting in my high school parking lot late one night, where I'd gone to smoke and try to find something that, obviously, was long gone. Losing your childhood happens to everyone, but its a really disconcerting moment, and it's different for everyone. It's weird when you know things will never be the same...)

I came back tonight
and no one was here, although
it all looks exactly the same.
I thought when I left I'd taken away
a bundle of people whose
smiles I'd memorized
and laughter I owned.
When I thought of a legacy, I thought of
a small silver ring,
and how we'd always think parallel thoughts.

It seems like I miscalculated, and
somewhere along the way
silence became what I managed to keep.
Tonight it was a heavy silence, burdensome
amidst the starless, humid air.
But I'd be lying to say that it was always so heavy,
and sometimes the quiet
is pleasantly ironic lain over my city streets.

And now the planet has grown so warm
that the air is too thick to see through
and even the stars can't be seen,
at least not how they once were.

At least I learned while I was here.
Of course they left out the important lessons,
like how to say goodbye
and what to wear when you grow up
and to remember not to be surprised
when unchangeable things change.
And how not to lose socks.

My fingertips smell like smoke which
is usually romantic but tonight
is oppressive and out of place
on my kitchen floor,
where I have sat to take a deep breath
and think about what to eat.
I already know I don't want anything.

Except to stay and go at once,
and invent a device
that will render things permanent.