to Sam, love Sam

All that I can do is sing a song of faded glory,
All you got to do is sit there, look great, and make them horny.


Together we'll sing songs
and tell exaggerated stories,
About the way we feel today
in the night and in the morning.

Remember when we were young? Why does that already feel like so long ago. The robots in my brain are reading dates off slides and I am stuck under the speculation of the heat lamp in my room. When did we get so old? When did Friday nights turn into long naps that last until morning. I’m pulling my hair out trying to remember the last good story I had to tell. When did I run out of stories? At the start of the year I got coffee with Daniel at least once a week. And we’d sit in the corner and sip away at our adventures and journeys---our explorations! Sam, I used to have stories to tell. Now I peel away at these little afterthoughts settling to the bottom of my still, current-less brain. I am static in the containment of these limbs and I want to jump out of my skin and be crazy and loud again. I want to lie awake in my bed all night barely containing the excitement in my cheeks. Instead I lie awake and stare blindly at the night stars so pathetically plastered to our ceiling. And I wake up and nothing has changed. I am exploring the dreams on my pillow and picking out my favorites. I think I’ll continue to explore them so. I have collected some good stories here. Maybe for now, I’ll just have to pick at those.