little red book

There was a time when things were put on paper. There was a time when our memories were mostly meat and ink. A list of names, featured phone numbers. Romance always written down. Columns like candles calling down the saints. Letters and phone calls and always another tomorrow. The days shed loved better because they would never be seen again. This lonesome a little purer because there was such a thing as alone.

I wouldn't call you, even if I had your number. I wouldn't call you, even if I had a little red book. There are no more converts, no more glad disciples. I am out of practice and have nothing left to preach. I know now I am not built to cherish. I curse and blaspheme and will mock my last gasp here. The days profaned by my bitter and my illness. Your absence that hole my heart could never mend. What is there to say that you wouldn't know already? This meter and this rhetoric, this timbre and this pitch. Singing to myself, to the stars that hide beyond me. The sky gone gray, the song kicking up the dust.

Again it is night, and I write as smoke is rising. Again I am outside, waiting on the rain. These cigars and this sadness among my prized addictions. A thumb smudged tablet glowing lonely in my hands. I could see your face, if I had a picture. I could say your name, with only dogs and trees to hear. I think of you still, having lost faith in tomorrow. I think of you like yesterday which I believe in even less. Happy or not, we at least all get our endings. I smoke this cigar as I punctuate this feeling. Dreams still cling, whatever I believe.