an overactive imagination (?) is a terrible thing to waste
i could seethe with rage (and i do) towards inanimate people known only via certain venues but i know the locale oh-so well through stories, hints and anecdotes drenched in calm reminiscence
but that's the blade i drink and the liquor that cuts because i feared i was like that one still communicating, still THERE in thoughts, only unearthed in the middle of the night -- hands rubbing, moaning the name (i always wait for the confusion to call on) and i wish that it hadn't cemented the bond
i can never break it and for that reason it's hard to feign confidence
i'd say it's nothing personal but that'd be a lie upon a lie because it's EVERYTHING, and it's way too fucking personal