by Marcus Jonathan Chapman
It’s nearly 3 AM again. I just wiped my stomach of liquid pearls threatening to become children in the wrong place. I want to hop on a motorcycle and drive towards the sun rises, maybe I can ride it up into the sky.
Sleep isn’t important. I’m missing someone. whoever isn’t there to dance with me. Whoever isn’t there to roll over and cuddle. Whoever isn’t there. I’m here but they’re not.
Everyone gets married but it’s not the right time. Love cannot be a commitment it must be the ability to let go. Taking hugs when they come and smiling at the freedom when they don’t. There must be too many of us around for two people to stay together. It can’t just be me.
It’s the splinters that kill the carpenter, the leaded chips that kill the painter, the nails that kill the construction worker. It’s the things I missed that killed what I used to think was love.
The world is falling apart all around me. I can hear the voices saying not to be selfish. There are much worse situations to be in. There are lonelier existences. So where’s the switch to turn it off? When will the beads of gratitude be pushed to my side on that joy counting abacus?
The TV is always on. Music is always playing. There’s always another meal. There’s another bill. There’s a new thing to replace. Or what?