Here I am, carrying your socks around with me in my pocket like a goddamn lunatic. I used them as gloves. Kept my hands warm. I swell with anger. My tide recedes, then the anger turns into nothing. Kind of like how footprints wash away in the sand. Or some other bullshit. Allegorical nonsense. Whaddya got left? Well, for starters, you've got your hands, that's pretty huge. People ask me how I'm doing & I tell them that I'm alive. That's a good thing. I think. Being alive is tough though; most things are aimless, arbitrary. Whatever. Kind of like this diatribe I'm going on. Although, there are moments of good. I suppose nothing is without its opposite. I'll spare you anymore.
& I step down off of my soapbox.
Young,
dumb,
Hopeful, & full of beer.
I stare off.
You're here.
That bridge,
big & beautiful,
tired & weathered like me.
& I pause.
A refrain.
Love, swelling.
Rising.
& I'll say no more,
because something's are better off felt.
Myself & the hole that is in me.
All is okay.
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