it seems i cannot escape. i walk the pathways of my mind calmly and aimlessly; just have to turn a corner and there you are, a swift undercurrent of thought.

everyone else pales in comparison. o beloved.

***

in idleness i found myself writing your name upon my body

a year in the life, wasted. foiled by a pair of dark eyes and golden brown hair.

are you alone in this day? or have you gone home, far away? are you with friends?

somehow i imagine you sitting alone and still in twilight in an empty flat, perhaps with a cup of wine, looking into the distance (an expression worthy of young werther, ne?)and hearing the faint laughter

but that is just a moment of fancy. you are so many things to me that you most likely are not anything at all on your own

still, the year is done and i am cold hearted and empty handed and hungry and
dead