You’ve made me a Shadowboxer baby

I am writing with music now
I am illuminated in perception now, and I will not write of this person anymore.

Did he see me try not to cry at the bar? He felt bad, obviously, or he wouldn’t have driven me back home

Scorn within the subtext of sleepiness--I avoided his eyes the whole time. I cannot write, sitting here, at this desk with the bright lights off while Hannah cries

With the bright lights off and I just put my head beneath my hand, only for a moment, just like at the bar--the awful openness of that place by my home where he has so often spent the night with me. I stretched out my legs attempting to evoke some strange sense of arrogance, as if that would outweigh my inability to look him in the eyes for more than a moment. And I spoke about the new restaurant across the street, about my mother, stories trailing off into nothing even slightly evoking what I was then feeling. Everything unsaid weighed in an air with no music and I saw him peruse the jukebox, and possibly he did so because of this unspoken inability, all bare and stark and out in the open.

this is a horrendous place; I am a fool. not foolish for ever thinking that anything would grow and disperse in some dirty white wave of seeds and stick to my jacket and get caught in my hair, but I thought something,
I hardly know what I thought, or perhaps only fabricated--
the validity of temporal satisfaction,

the momentary being, love being a momentary joy, and all the tiresome interactions between these joys being unaccountable, disposable--
yet the life we lead is interspersed with the sorry reality of truth, or the sorry state of remorsefulness. The other says that we cannot be together, and though I’ve been listening to This One for quite awhile, I have always know the superior strength contained in The Other. I actually cried
with a hand shutting his view away, away in some ridiculous repose I sat and cried and was very sure to be conscious of not letting my makeup run. the bar was all brown, just like him.
the earth is all brown and my mother’s hair is quite brown, yet I dye my hair to be anything but brown. I swallowed my repose in this pose and looked away towards those signs in neon that advertise some neon degradation, and attempted to think about those watery things--drinks and love and memories/wishes controlled by my erratic terror. who was this person?
who was this person to hold me, delegate a constant adoration from me, just as
has already been delegated among others? I am coughing now and my face is dried
cracked by salted water again.

I chose this.

he has a wife. they had a wedding. he never promised me anything.

I smoke in my room constantly. Zhalih is leaving. I don’t know what to do.

the moment that separates us is as stark as the
wirily filaments in my hands. and you could be doctor, or practitioner, telling me, within a
Hushed and overly-compensating voice, that I am okay
That it may all just wash away--

but it will not.