You Were Trying To Tell Me Something

Hell Is The Special Pain That Dwells In That Loss Which You Yourself Have Caused

You Know You're In Love With Somebody When You Wake Up Next To Them, Comfortable Despite Your Breath Smelling Like The Week-old Water At The Bottom Of A Vase, When You Are Terribly Excited To See Them, To Talk To Them Again, Having Missed Them After All That Sleep.

It's Like The Smell Of Burned Toast. You Made The Toast. You Looked Forward To It. You Even Enjoyed Making It, But It Burned. What Were You Doing? Was It Your Fault? It Doesn't Matter Anymore. You Open The Window, But Only The Very Top Layer Of The Smell Goes Away. The Rest Remains Around You. It's The Walls. You Leave The Room, But It's On Your Clothes. You Change Your Clothes, But It's In Your Hair. It's On The Thin Skin On The Tops Of Your Hand. And In The Morning, It's Still There.

[memory] Visits When It Is Hungry, Not When You Are.

He Sits In His Car At Traffic Lights On His Way Out Sometimes And Tries To Estimate How Many Times He Has Sat Here, Waiting At These Traffic Lights On His Way Somewhere Without You, Hoping To Meet Someone With The Capacity To Consign You To An Anecdote, To Be Eventually Confused With Others