everything escapes me, these days.
but the things I expect to leave
are the things that choose to stay -
you, and you, and you.
one of you was never here,
one of you was almost here, and
one of you has always been here.
you, I guess, are the most difficult issue.
it's as if - it's as if a man is shipwrecked,
on a desert island, say,
and the only thing he has taken with him
is a bottle of pain relievers.
he is free of pain for -
well, in his mind, three years -
when really, he is starving and dying,
refusing to face the fact that he has
nowhere to lie his head at night,
no real security at all,
only a memory of better days,
of fresh water, and a hope for a better future.
maybe he gets clean, maybe he doesn't.
the fallacy of the platonic ideal.
you, I guess, are not an issue at all, really.
if anything, it is i who was poison in your blood:
as much as you convinced yourself
that the poison was harmless,
helpful, even, m