The past called back yesterday
and was like remember me, trying so desperately to be a part of the present.
I’d forgotten his name and I still can’t recall it…
The past was like
I pulled my new girl ’cause I knew you and she thinks that’s cool and I wanted you to know it’s why I haven’t asked to fuck again although, of course, I’d like to
and of course, I would if you wanted me too but
in the meantime and between time
what’s the address to your blog again
that’s what I really want to keep getting drunk on
and I’m hoping you mention me some
because people seem to love the posts where you do
and I do too
so send me a link, please
and yet his name escapes me, even now, I cannot remember it at all
because that’s how it goes these days
the past stays
the past still has things to say
the past says we gotta keep connected
whether it means anything to you anymore, even if you’ve forgotten,
I’m still here to keep letting you know it was a very good idea that you had to move the fuck on.
Cheers, whatever the fuck your name is, sir.
The only thing I could think was damn… wait a minute and hold the phone-
if I have this kind of effect on you and you don’t matter to me
I forgot this part of my past even existed
sorry your name has escaped-
Yet I wonder
if I keep the channel open for parts of the past that I carry with me-
that I crave openly
whose name is engraved on me, underneath my skin
seared into my stupid aching weak punk-ass heart
that I seek transitional objects to replace
will that part of the past reach back out to me too
If so…
Hi Boo.
I actually miss writing about what I remember about you.
I hope mister who again likes this post.
My Mind, My Mood, My delicately poisoned pen... 