because of bukowski

at night in a fast asleep house

an uncalled for chilly wind in summer

with cigarettes after sex playing in my ears

missing the lumineers but not forgetting how they felt

listening to my own thoughts

breathing

then breathing again

looking to my right and finding peace for a few hours

the heavy sleep in my eyes making me smile;

that's the best.

hugging myself a little tighter

thinking it could have been you

cussing at the thought

way past midnight

thinking of a damn good line but not writing it down

thinking about all that i could have done

thinking about all that i should not have said

listening to my thoughts

looking inside my head

looking at the image of a broken self curled up

bawling

weeping

pathetic

just not learning;

that's the worst.

shaking it off

listening to Gregory Alan

letting him remind me how i am different

just not learning

being stubborn for all the right reasons

hurting myself but not him

waiting for an answer

never actually getting one

but not regretting never asking

past midnight at 3 am

so close to sunrise

the air still illegally chilly

pleading me to not tell the sun it was here in summer

with the house fast asleep

this poetry inspired by a dead old crude poet

listening to my thoughts

serene, beautiful, pathetic;

that's the best.

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