truth is, it escapes me.
whatever it is that I did,
(or I thought I did)
back when it used to flow through me,
must either be dead or moved on.
not that it's impossible, you know–
I think it's just not that simple any longer, it's
a form or art that wanders off, that staggers through the empty streets
and does not know how to wash the dishes
or maybe even, I think, it may not know
how to stay home and make the apartment a home,
organize and decorate in a way that
prevents headaches and I'm sure
it doesn't know how to love, how to read,
who to talk to about failure, hope, loss and rebirth;
I'm not even sure it knows how to make friends,
how to lose friends, how to approach disenchantment,
who to search for in a crowd, who to vote for,
how to cook for more than two.
it's like she lived upstairs, but I never heard her,
she wasn't home and when she was, her head was someplace else
or with someone else.
so when I approach it know it feels alien:
a person that no longer lives with me
and never actually tried to pay rent.