I think about you, some.

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She's posting all the time, but the boards are down.
It's a burned out building.

He's spending all this time on his back.
Staring at the ceiling.

They spared themselves that way
I'm with that. I'm with them.

You aren't. You're alive, dammit.
Gnawing on the prey.
I think about you, some.

Where to put you?
All the backed up data for a raining time.

Insulate a fragile mind.
Capsulize a broken find.

Don't do this, man.
There's another one off behind.
Breaking down the door without... warning.

She just ignores the time that the boards came down.
It's a numbed out feeling.
He just accepts that pain with a hate mantra.
A spiritual killing.

They just relax that way.
I'm with that. I'm with them.

You aren't. You're alive, dammit.
Crayon past line. Stay after school.
Crossword filled in non-photo blue.

So they'll never find you.
Can't go through this now.
I'm leaving a message.
Stapled on your head.

SHHAA......
I get the same result.
We get the same effect


On the subway this morning I saw someone who looked uncannily like one of my most significant exes. Significant in that he was my first husband (albeit a marriage that didn't see it's second anniverary). I haven't seen him in about 14 years. Scary how time flies when life happens to you.

It wasn't a bad marriage...I was just too young and wanting someone to save me from myself, so was he. Always a mistake. I didn't know then, what I know now - the only person who can save you from yourself is your own self. We clung to each other for a while and then started to disintegrate. Therapy, tears, fights, more tears, more therapy and the eventual and necessary decision to split apart. He moved out west to California and promptly became addicted to "Ice". I continued therapy and became who I am today. The last time I spoke to him was 1995, when he called me desperate for money.

And then this morning, 8 a.m. on the F train, someone walked on at Carroll that was his spitting image. I tried not to stare. I didn't think it was him. After all, what would he be doing back in Brooklyn? He was never from here in the first place. I snuck glances every few seconds...reeling through memories. Trying to remember his profile, was his nose like that? I thought it was smaller. Was his hair really that light? Would he really be wearing hipster jeans? I wondered if I should ask him his name...but to what end? The girl that married that boy was gone 15 years ago...and honestly, if he wanted to find me, I'm in the book. Searches for him in Google come up with nought.

But still I wonder. Part of me hopes that it was him. He looked good...healthy, recovered. And part of me wonders if that isn't just wishful thinking.



Image by Elizabeth Zusev, taken January 2008