More alone than I can remember ever being.

I'm an empty milk crate, and you're the changing weather. The air is so thick that I keep mistaking it for tangible, and try to shake out sheets of humidity and end up looking foolish. I hate trust. My thoughts are sinking, while my disposition has fully capsized in it. You've got an advantage in that you know the street names better than me. How New York is so much closer to you than to myself. How I don't yet know many more. I'm stupid for falling for a transient and expecting reciprocation. Right now i'm wordering why I would bother with attempting metaphor, when it's much more than I was given. I guess I figured I could at least save face, if not myself. Not all bodies are so deciduous. Lay some books in me.

Let's take back what is hours.

Short Bout of Optimism.

Let's all burn holes in our pockets and make mixtapes full of the songs that we chose because of what they mean, not for what we think the recipient will enjoy. And we wouldn't sneer at power chords anymore and our jokes wouldn't be at anyone else's expense. We'd crowd bathroom stalls in a greyhound station of a city we've never been to before and share giant beers. You know the ones. We'd never get caught but we wouldn't take our freedom for granted. And it wouldn't matter about our interests being linear, as everything would be seen as congruent. And we'd discover how to sever the line between certain souls and the culture they appreciate. There would still be critics, and critism of the critism, but we wouldn't forget to share the last laugh. We'd stay up late.

and we would be genuinely considerate of each other. and it would be without expectation of reciprocation.