It wasn't always like this

And you nod your I-believe-yous emphatically. Your eyes go wide like I'm telling a marvelous story about princesses in towers.

But it's true. I swear it.

Part of me knows that it's not supposed to be this way. The memories have faded, and the more I tell my stories, the less real they seem, because nothing now or here or soon matches up.

(I have photos too, and letters, and notes, and concert stubs.)

None of it matters anyway. I hear myself talk and it doesn't even seem real to me.

Fuck the obligatory dinner parties and get-togethers and hellos and goodbyes and the shrouded rolling of eyes. yes, I noticed and yes, you're very special. Fuck all of it.

And you, the one I like, the one, I think, likes me back... Yeah, you mister, you're not part of this. Meet me somewhere neat sometime, and we'll have coffee and smiles and nods and winks and, I promise, everything will be alright again.