Emails crept in, messages chimed in, I caved in
“Sorry, is there a question directed to me?”
“Sorry, I can’t make it.”
“Maybe not start with clubbing”
and, the messages, the missings.
What is it?
Marched in, I can feel it.
Three in the afternoon - cigarettes, scotch, and expresso.
And the binge -
on being, and
The most comfortable place was,
in that 1997 snow, I can be
I know it too well.
The only promise in life,
the never flaky one,
more on clock than any other -
who am I without you.
Who am I to know -
without sympathetic reasons.
Neiman Marcus staff,
just like another therapist, who
knows me too well.
the one who shows up after
too many problems,
probably after have thrown up 300 worth of food and alcohol, that
probably is what clogged the toilet.
Who am I to know those people,
Who am I to know loneliness,
Who am I to be used to sadness,
Leaving is a much simpler solution than living.
Who am I to know that,