Every now and again, I will discover a note from you. Your words are thoughtful words and scarce. Any crumb that falls from your table this hungry dog will lick from the floor. Your sentences are few, carefully chosen, too little, too late, and never too much, faithfully married, God bless you, hovering somewhere between a fading warmth and impersonal. I think I know why you do it. Because you still care. Because you still think of me, maybe no longer passionately but at least in the passing, yes? Maybe you’re merely curious. After all, we went from so many labile years together, more ups than downs, a roller coaster ride of lovers’ sighs and butterflies and the occasional wrecking ball of insecurities and disloyalties, to nothing and nothing and nothing.

Broken bottles. Broken promises. Broken hearts.

Your life is peaceful now. Big house, spacious garage, nice yard, stable man. Living in the flatlands of endless predictability upon the plains of the status quo. No more blue lights and bracelets. No more calls from jail or posting bail. You’ve followed the advice of Kenny: Don’t Fall in Love with a Dreamer.

I wander in the wilderness of my own making. I wonder as I wander and climb these fourteener mountains of regret. The view from here is painful. Like Moses who was forbidden to enter the Promised Land because he didn’t control his anger and didn’t have enough faith in the one who loved him. Memories sting like a scorpions. I’m entangled in the thickets. Choked by addictions. Haunted and hunted by the shadow people. Cursed. No more happy poems, only Poe.

Because I love you, I keep reading more into your handshake level contact. I’m so pathetic. I stare at a single sentence and wonder if far more is hiding behind your tight economy of words. Do you fucking feel what I feel? Is your single sentence a leak in a dam holding back a billion gallon flood which will drown and destroy us both again? I don’t know. In the end, I think that you’re only being kind. You were always the kind one, scooping up every bird with a broken wing.

Kindness is better than nothingness. So…

I see your words and the distant light they ignite in my heart is deceptive. A foolish fire. Spontaneous combustion. Privately consuming.

All I know is that the twelfth of July left me standing in a desert place. The night wind is a sad song and I no longer wish upon the stars. Occasionally, I will see a nosey satellite mocking me overhead, a floating chunk of space shit reminding me of your texts to someone else and making possible the movie you’re watching while sitting next to him on a cozy couch, your hand teasing and tickling his crotch.

I BIC an American Spirit Blue and stare at a very visible invisible you. I reach out and touch the soft flesh of your peppermint and honey memory.

The smoke coming from my nostrils isn’t angry anymore. It’s the escape of the soul from the body. It’s a loss of all intelligence, reason, common sense, and purpose. It’s my nous. Which, divided in half, becomes: no us.


Every day you are further and farther away. I am thirsty for you. But you are a mirage. And—fuck me silly, honest, and true —I will do it every damn time. I will dive into the cool clear pool of your blue lagoon eyes. Your mouth will receive mine and I will spit out the sand.
Andrew Dabar