stranger things

You don't owe me a thing, I promise you don't, and all I Owe yoU now is to leave you alone.

It's sad, so sad - don't you think that it's sad? Don't you think that it's strange that you find me estranged? As if you even know where ever to find me, anymore. As if we even ever shared any kind of a door.

Walk through with me my life, for a while. There's the bear, the elephant, and the crocodile.

Not just my father, but my dad - too bad! A divorce, of course, traced back to the source, none too little and none too glad, dulled by the thoughts of a myriad.

And I'm not paranoid, you see; the thing is, I'm Right. I'm vindicated, even when I've Left it all behind (and the room is so cold, for the want of a hug or a hoodie).

Let's go back to that starting point: I miss you. Don't you miss me?

Don't you wonder where it all went? Don't you ever want to know?

It's all down to me, now, I fear - the caring, the sharing, the bulk and the thick of it, while you slinger out in the thin.

I've been starved and marked and harped for harvest. Nobody wants me, truly, truely, but the ship's still coming to take me, I know.

I want to hug somebody. Close. I want to sit and stay and hang on.

I don't even know who, anymore. I don't even know about you, anymore.

With a jolting uppercut of punctuation, I reserve the table, entrapped for unctuation.

In the Bible, they make a great deal of breaking bread - certainly, much more than they celebrate the baking it.

Even when people have slovenly habits, or are terminally bred to the whiteness of their crumb, I still like to share a meal with them. This, of all expressions of love, I feel the god's good bad book bible got quite right.

Obviously, set aside, the sacrifice. Never you mind all that stuff about interminable feelings and the everlasting promise of the lord, for heaven, for extrication and continuation.

It's the stuff of legends, indeed, what people will do for each other; great things, monumental things, touchpoints of a lifetime.

You're always free to be the one who found me my car, toured with me my apartment, offered me your home in which for me to live. I've had great success, in fact, returning to that home in that car for to invite the finder for fee back in and on. But I do wish you - you, you, you superfamilial man - would come over, ever. Would ever leave me the space and time to wonder.

You could build me, birth me, unearth me, change the trajectory of the entire world for me and for the rest of the humanity, but that's not what I need, to become unstrange.

(How is this, petty this, punitive this, punk-ass this, the stranger thing for you to do?)

I just want to bum a ride, get a milkshake, watch a show, take a nap.

(I want to do all of those things without a deer in the road causing a panic attack.)

I want life and love, too much to keep track.

Really, I just want you to come back.