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.