It's Raining

There's an art to leaving, a perfection, a symmetry.

Here's how you leave: you sit, you cry, you call a million people you haven't spoken to in months. You want someone to say the right thing, and you don't know what it is, but you know you haven't heard it, so when the words dry up, you go quiet.

You live off caffeine and nicotine for three days, and when you try and swallow soup you gag it up again.

You cry a little more, you call the ex and talk for three hours and say 'I love you' more times than you ever said it in three years of fights and punches.

You scour the internet for evidence that everyone else is more successful, less single, less crazy, just as confused as you. You wallow a little in the sting of being reliably, perpetually a wild card, the only prediction that anyone can make about you being that at some point, at some time, you'll pack and leave in the night, a few broken pieces scattered behind.

And you stop checking your email and your facebook and all that bullshit, because there's no one you want to talk to, and you don't have anything left to say. You kind of wish you hadn't spent so much time working-working-working, because you forgot to feel a little too.

You don't really know where you're going, but you know where you have to be, so until then you just let things slide a little, hope the money people sent you is enough. You buy a pack of cigarettes and a coffee.

You don't know what you feel. You don't particularly care. It's still raining.

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-music is my religion-