Steve is on (to) something

Beautiful stranger,
I know that I know you,
And yet -
The distant look in your eyes
When you gaze my way,
I do not know.

I do not know,
The face you have put on,
Or the beat that your heart plays.
I am sure that I know you,
And yet -
There is no warmth in your embrace,
nor spark of recognition.
You are not she who I once knew.

You are become
but a beautiful stranger.

I don’t understand why I feel like this today. I just want to be standing in the rain and not think. I want to be stoned and drunk and have nicotine fuck up my brain cells.

I want to not think about life or love or the two long tests I have coming up. I want my life to myself but I can’t stop thinking that I should be living for other people and the thought that I am not happy at all just makes me want to die right now.

Fuck.

–

Ok, to clear things up with my concerned readers, I didn’t really write this post above. *gasp, plagiarism!* Okay, I admit it, I did copy this paragraph from some book. But it’s really one of those cases when you read about something you feel so strongly and you feel that the author could have been writing about you. Something like that.

Ten minutes to go.
I’m still waiting in this unkempt lobby.
The chairs are in disarray
And yesterday’s paper is scattered on the table.

The murky water in the aquarium
Goes sploosh sploosh splash
And arowana unmindful,
It almost transports me
To pristine waterfall -
My reverie is broken.

Five minutes to go.
The whirring of the fan
Keeps me company
As does this lone fly.

The evening chill
Seeps deep into me and my heart shivers.
My skin breaks into bumps
And my hairs stand on end.
When, I ask myself,
Will this end?

And then the church bells chime
And I know it’s time.
12 midnight – I can greet you now.
You will probably receive this text.
Two minutes earlier
Or two minutes later.
Who knows, our watches
May be out of sync.

If that is so,
I ask myself
What then was I waiting for?

—

I wrote this on my mom’s birthday 8 months ago. I was waiting for 12 midnight so I could greet her on the dot. My writing still continues to surprise me.