I have no title for you.

Mar 31, 2008 - 09:47 AM PST

I’d wish you well, but I’d be wishing myself the worst.
Instead, spinning, spinning til I’m sick of stars,
unless they’re those indoors, in picture frames or tv screens.
How do I mean? Certainty never was my forte.
I’d whisper something cryptic if I thought you wouldn’t crack it.
Tell streams of lies to avert their eyes, so I can revel in even worse ones.
That one about the stairs, how I met you there,
the truth couldn’t be farther from this place.
I’m calling for sleep, minutes from waking.
The only time these pangs of what was subsides.
Lately, it gives no comfort, no big nothing to take in.
I just wake from what was to what is and I’m not sure which I’d prefer.