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Hard-Boiled Eggs and the End of This Chapter

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This coffee shop is cold.

Reading Murakami

my vision’s blurred by

inconvenient tears.

Why are all your thoughts so uncertain?

It’s knowing that any explanation is probably false.

Coming to these kind of places

in search of conversation? To escape myself?

This place where everyone seems so distant?

Propagated by the idea that coffee shops are for intellectuals and pseudo intellectuals alike

so for that matter, what’s even the point?

To think there was a time when I’d walk up to any of these strangers just to invade their private world.

Now reading Murakami,

I barely lift my head.

Rain Shower Souls

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What happened to that rain shower soul?

The sun’s still shining but where did it go?

And all those sidewalk chalk talking dreams

came loose like a button torn at the seams.

What happened to that day dream tune?

The song’s still playing but how bout you?

And all those streetlight coffee shop blues

aligned like the sun eclipsed by the moon.

Did it help to regret all that came too soon?

Like skipped rocks reflect rippled waters in June?

Cause that honey was sweet so I tasted it all

aware that no one dear could break this fall.

Did it help to indulge in the depths of the Eve?

If Adam were blind don’t you think he’d still see?

Cause more often than not two stars in the sky

do cross one another in the blink of an eye.

What a trip to be youthful, dramatic and bold

To walk just a block with those rain shower souls

But age without reason can make you quite old

I’ve stitched my last button, when you’re ready I’ll go.

I’m still dealing with your ghost.

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Please stop reading if you’ve heard this before.

It’s been 15 years since.

And I’m still holding onto a ghost.

15 god damn years.

And I’m still crying in a coffee shop.

I wasn’t even 15.

And you sure as hell weren’t a Boy Scout,

so who tied the noose?

I want to know what type of knot you used.

It’s been 15 years.

And I want answers.

Answers that I’ll never receive.

I want an apology.

You son-of-a-bitch.

How embarrassed you must have been.

I wasn’t even 15.

And they don’t even know the half of it.

And here I am again.

Wasting my energy on this endless sadness.

Because you couldn’t hack it.

Towards the end they say you were over medicated.

Well it’s been 15 years.

And it’s probably the reason I don’t even like to take aspirin.

It’s just that over 15 years it’s been hard to explain.

Like when you come right out and say it.

He.  Committed.  Suicide.

Kids used to awkwardly laugh at first and then realize I wasn’t lying.

And suddenly everyone’s sorry.

Suddenly I have to act sad.

Or act like it’s fine.

Nobody wants to see you break down in front of them.

Nobody wants to know your whole life story.

15 god damn years and I’m blubbering like a baby.

Screaming at the top of my lungs – drunk.

So if you’ve heard this before please stop reading.

Because I’m sure I’ve said it.

I’m as sure as I was 15 years ago.

Lost.

Because you don’t get custody after biting someone on the face.

And I don’t get answers.

I don’t get an apology.

Even after 15 years.

I’m still dealing with your ghost.