On your own

photo by Art Tavee

My thoughts drift away again and I'm thinking of you... Yes, you, there, in the black.

All my lovers wear black.

And they see me there... or there.... or this way, or that, and yet I feel misrepresented, is it my fault? Or are they not paying attention? I'm probably eluding them, avoiding and scheming. Can you scheme subcontiously? I think I can. I think I can read your mind, too, so watch your eyes...

And I'm thinking of you.

Are you thinking of me?

no body likes you, Meagan... It's a whisper in my ear lately and I wonder if it's the echo's off the walls of my jaded thought prison or the looks in other people's eyes, the unformed words on their lips. Are you judging me? and I wish I could seep into the background and I can't and I think it's because I'm tall or maybe it's the whole I-can't-keep-my-mouth-shut thing cause surely it can't be this face, too plain, this body, too big. You talk too much. Worry too much. Care too much. Too many mistakes. Do you remember me the way I remember you? I feel like these photographs are lying to me, all of them, and they seem not right to my memory. You in the kitchen. The smell of your hair. On the rainy streets, holding your hand, your smile. I'm remembering a concoction and it never went that way, only in fleeting moments. Remember that dinner? I remember them all.

But it's time to let that all go.

Let it go... be content alone...

A lesson I've been trying to learn most of my life.