It’s rare that I complete something that I do not offer up for public consumption. Borderline unprecedented. I thrive on minor accolades. When taken as a whole my facebook comments are letters cut from magazines that I paste into ransom notes demanding praise for mild cleverness, or else. It’s all quite sad. If I were single I’m sure it would be worse.
The larger pieces I write are fueled by the same id but with a more convoluted intent. I still hope to reap praise for my artistic verve, but there is at least some attempt to define an idea and express some sense of place. All of this is to say that I am both vain and undiscerning about what I’ll disseminate to the world at large, which makes my discovery so odd: I found a poem in a note book that I do not remember writing and have apparently have never shown to anyone. And I am not shy about showing terrible old poems to people.
He’s almost always leaving and never wholly there
it’s the nature of between things to fade not disappear
Distance is just dreaming indifference worn to care
the absence she’s entreating is space that can be shared
The boy was barely breathing to proud for borrowed air
the breathless words he’s speaking less than he could spare
He had edges worth believing that the center could be fair
enough to bear her grieving for a man that’s almost there
Who the hell did I write that about? The obvious subtext is dating me is a lot less certain and rewarding than one might think…but that doesn’t really rule anyone out; there are facebook groups dedicated to my failings as a fully engaged romantic partner. I don’t remember when I bought the note book that I wrote it down in so even the chronology is a mystery. Could it be from some time displaced future version of myself, leavings pockets of mediocre poetry lying about to avert some tragedy caused by my profound narcissism? Do I have some Tyler Durden-eque alter ego who’s exactly the same kind of shitty boyfriend I am? This is genuinely troubling.