you have to reconcile yourself to it at some point. i guess.

But see, we're all only just waiting at these stations for that one moment that resolves us. That's what it all comes down to: look for a last rest stop, and possibly stay forever. We can convince ourselves this is it, really. All to live for (and to die), and in the end it's only a matter of believing what you want to, not what you've been taught. Honestly, tell yourself it will happen and then chase those dreams till the thread runs out. You won't know how you got there, but at least you'll have a journey. Just as a little memento, just something to look through. To help while you wait for that one station that speaks to you and makes you want to be.
I've been told sometimes that being is the greatest gift I'll ever get. It's good to have a chance.

Quite unlike Lullaby
those authors of bliss aid
sordid fantasies,
Reminders of could-bes
and not-quites

recreate Cheap Love.
We were not meant to be lovers
nor to recreate
Ancient Lore

We were but players.
I live to forget my indiscretions
in  your moment of lying comfort.

Hold on.
And eyes squeezed shut,
breathing. Whisper a half truth.

I forget in the personal,
And the brutally close. Forget
when your profanity became sacred

Rude shocks of morning breath as
you find
a lash clinging
And then turn to
Football scores.
I pluck it gingerly and wish
for innocence back,
what better gift?

Your preoccupations
my lack of indignation.
Both astound me,
For I give it all, and I do not know
What right this is
nor what i should ask for.

Recede into insignificance.
No hard feelings.

You forget, you forget.

They write of love as if there is nothing else. I smirk in hushed, polite tones. At the eventuality of these things, at the quick collapse, at the necessary process of making it amount to something. At least we've got pretense.