old (202?) and new (2025) but all the same

But don’t get it all in your head, that is the last thing I need or want. Truly, I  am making this bigger than this in the name of art or my work or my writing or whatever the hell we want to call it. And I’m drunk which doesn’t make it any better. I can take the smallest fucking lamb and turn it into a whole herd of wool if it means that I have something to write about. I have written about less. There are bigger things that I haven't even put pen to paper about. I have slain a goliath and put his head on a platter and haven’t even thought a second moment about it. But at the end of the day, I will write about you. Of course I will, because I have done it with others before and when my head hits my pillow, I will pray for you. I won’t ask God for you to change your mind, because that’s not what God does, but I will ask him to bring you warmth on those days that you are cold and strength on the days you feel weak. I rarely harbor hard feelings. I am soft. I am unlovable. I lack empathy a lot of the time, but I pray. Oh Lord, do I pray. And I will pray for you.

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I do wish you well. 

I wish for you,

cold pillows

and warm mornings.

I wish you happiness and health.

I pray for you sister and her daughter

and the daughters you will have.

Your wife will be so amazing,

I pray for her. 

I miss your company

and the stories you would tell ten times over.

I pick up chopsticks

and hear you recite your story of them. 

Sweet man,

I wish you will. 

I pray every day that you are well.

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I don’t think of any of them anymore.

Certain songs make me feel some way,

but rarely do I place their picture in the frame. 

The pain is still there, but there’s no one betrayal it’s attached to. 

Just a lingering, pulsing scar.

I don’t wince when I touch it

anymore.

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I told you that already. 

I think it’s your brain that’s failing you.

But it seems to be failing me

because I told you that already. 

I know you can’t help it,

you’re a forgetful boy,

but don’t make me put your head in my hands

and grab your ears 

and beg you to listen.

Just listen. 

Please, just listen. 

I told you that already.

I begged you to.

Don’t leave.

Just listen.

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Did you hear me?

I was crying just the other day.

Head hung low

as I told you that I wanted to go. 

Did you see me? 

Walking through the house like a phantom ghost. 

I was tired of you not doing the most

—or anything—

to make me stay. 

Grab my hand. 

For the love of God, 

grab my hand and beg me to stay 

Do something.

Something.

Anything.

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I don’t know how 

I’m supposed to love 

after this.

It’s happened again,

I let it happen

again. 

I forgot how many times

now. 

Maybe I’m not supposed

to love,

maybe that’s the whole point 

of this.

I’m supposed to withhold

and refrain

from love.

Maybe that’s what God wants

for me. 

If it’s true,

then I will be one of those

who defies him

to further my life 

of sin. 

Even with the bad moments—

the earth shattering, shuttering, shaking 

ones—

I still believe that love 

is worth it.