I will make-up your name here.
It’s suitable-

you aren’t even sure what your name is most of the time.
Your name, here, shall be Ω.
Afterall you are somewhere at the end of it all.
Be it an alphabet.
Be it a rope.
Be it a life.
                                                           +
We were cruising. You in the passenger seat. Raining outside.
We were driving…driving past the corner grocery toward the highway. The neon ads for cigarettes hum in the windows. Camel No.9?, I think, What the hell are those? Do they taste good? The ad is an alluring pink. I don’t want to end up being right about myself; You might think that I am ready to fully extinguish my silly youthful ways.

But I don’t like to extinguish. I like to light up.

I think about this for a while.

                            “Strange. Equal amounts of relief and shame.”

                                                       I must look so sad and as you can                  imagine,                               sadness does not have boundaries.

It does not have hands that succumb to handcuffs or barbed-wire.

                               In the end, this epidemic of sadness did not die in me.
                                                              +

There were tornado sirens going off when we got out of the car.
They made us want to follow them like the clarion call of apocalypse heralding angels. Such a strange noise. It reminded me of Europe. I told you that you smile romantically and I offered you a kiss. You refused because you had just gotten over a cold.

                                                                                                      —Sigh—

I run my hand along my brow,
“Do you hate me?”

You stare at me blankly, like a child.

“Of course not!!!! Why would I ever hate you???, Whats the point of all this great stuff you’ve been doing for us  if you’re just going to think I hate you?”

This story goes no where.