there's only the present, henri

on 14th street i remembered that our bridge has been weakening. and the water underneath it engulfed me as it finally burned.

what is about louisiana, i listened to the emus, drinking grapefruit beer, letting the bugs get a taste of me, what is it about this place that i leave paralyzed, powerfully alive then quickly stunted by the move. my legs are tired and my tongue is out of practice. maybe it’s the thick air cushioning me. maybe it’s his soft hands and wide eyes. i don’t know what i want anymore.

it’s always necessary.

overlooking antlanta, thinking of all the men i’ve loved, all the risks i didn’t take. i have spent so much time resisting. i don’t know what i’m doing or what i’ve done. i’m a passive character in a bildungsroman. when will the author write into me some autonomy? when will i be swallowed by the whale, dead and resurrected? i’m in desperate need of change.

i miss you like you’re dead

it’s 330am in new york city and the entire world seems wasted on something, cheap wine or heroin or infatuation, all of the privileged drunks stumble in herds, people are falling in love on the curbs, and i am only wasted on restlessness, or maybe illusion.

so many ghosts in this town already. so many things that evaporated by now, bubbling at the surface, breaking before impact, before release, before the cork came loose. i don’t know. this place is missing something now. i’m still not sure what i’m doing or if i’ll ever know or if your words were only drug induced or child-bearing. i don’t know. i think i’ll sleep.

and at once i knew i was not magnificent. strayed above the highway isle, i could see for miles, miles, miles.

feel so lost and tired like i’ve been walking for months or running as fast as i can. my neck aches so badly i can’t swallow. i miss everything at once. i miss what i didn’t have with him. i miss what i briefly had with you. i feel like the sun is constantly setting. there’s nothing left of this, it seems, nothing left to capture. i want the world to be overwhelming again, impossible to swallow.

thinking of the times we used to walk barefoot to the park and sit on the painted map on the concrete over california. lie with our hair in the gravel and our feet on the swing set. we’d drink your father’s beer and i would wait for him to call from orange county on every full moon. the way i loved him was so simple, the way i kept the coin from the arcade.

i wrote this song in 2005 when i was 17 and emo and stupid and played guitar and now 7 years later i find myself relating to it.

i’ve sat at home, collected dust / i gave my heart out of lust / and in this trust i stand in time / when everything is undefined / there’s 10,000 voices and none of them are mine. could you sing a little louder? / don’t say love i haven’t found out what it means / and why it seems so lost / i’ve fought for nothing.

i decide and then decide again / there’s nothing i can do to choose when / in the end it’s just a smile / i don’t know wrong from right / or if this might be worthwhile. / and in the definition / when did this become a question? / so lost / i’ve fought for nothing.

and all these maps they take me in circles / back and forth between the boroughs / and in the different hues / and the “i love you”s / i can’t find the words to say no / could you sing a little louder? / don’t say love i haven’t found out what it means / or why it seems so lost. / and in the definition / when does it become a question? / so lost.

this quarter life crisis is eating me alive. faced with an opportunity i shouldn’t turn my back to. wanting to run from it until i reach the desert and lie there naked. i want to read self-help fiction. i don’t know what the fuck i’m doing.