I sit in the chair of my now absent friend and already a victim of nostalgia's cold distance, I recognise our farewell and awkward instance of anxiety felt as I knowingly, evidently, stall the inevitable with lost and rambling, feeble thoughts. As our eyes meet at the door, I flinch and look away. Coy, made shy and abashed by my love. I see in your eyes all the tiredness I had inflicted upon you over your short stay. Flush and handsomely haggard. I admire you, protesting against the self in not reaching my hand out to you; in an offer of consolidating our friendship; in my desire to embrace you; to kiss you, and I envy you your return- that you should leave this mad place with pleasant recollections of a past spree as you immerse yourself once more in regular, working, solidarity, as I return to the destitute scene with the mind of a criminal, and mourn alone your passing from this place; left bitter-sweet since you departed- where here I shall wait those many long hours become days, until you again entreat upon me.
I consider the tasks ahead and everything I needs must do before me and it is all too much. Right now, when even just to summon the will to move becomes such a dauntingly momentous task, how think I to do? When every thing needs must be done by the selfless 'i', devastated since you are gone... How shall I even think to do?In league with me sits the cigarette you last, kindly, allowed me. Yet, filled with the most miserable woe, I dare not smoke; to see your effigy cremated.
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