Alone No Matter

the dust settles and you can still see
the sweat on your face from last night. it doesn’t take much
to get you reeling again. and your heart is twisted
into something frantic and panting, just like it was
in the dark. my advice?
pick up your shit and run.
put as many miles under your feet as you can, and
only look back if you have to.

you have resorted to burning blank sheets of paper
because you have run out of things to say
but you still want to watch something go up in flames.
sometimes you just throw names
in the fire. and the smoke smells sweet
like chemical memories, but you can’t help
wanting to wash the soot off after you finish.
it is all just a coping mechanism.
a way to keep breathing when the past
is standing on your chest.

and you see women walking by in green dresses
and you wonder why you are still wearing black.
but it all comes down to the soles
of your shoes, I guess, and whether
they take you from point A to point B.
hell, yours even dance for you sometimes.
I suppose that’s worth hanging on to.

but the dirt in your eyes is hard
to ignore, even under spotlights and fog machines.
you are beginning to realize that getting a stranger
to buy you drinks in a bar
does not actually improve your self-esteem.
you still feel hollow at the end of the night,
even with a hundred lips pressed
against your body.

this is what starts the reeling:
the recognition that you are alone
no matter whose bed you are sleeping in.

and that sweat on your face is starting to look real ugly
now, isn’t it? so follow my advice
before it’s too late. pick up your shit and get out.
slam your feet on the pavement until you can’t feel
the hurt anymore. maybe this time
you’ll finally outrun
yourself.