An In between

I'm listening to myself talk, and I think I have at least 3 different people arguing inside my head.  Three people who love three different things, who act differently, who want different things.

A writer, a lover, an artist maybe?

the writer who only really speaks of one person.
the lover who's met the (imaginary) one.
and the artist who will never forgive himself.

shame.
hope.
peace?

I wonder.  Will I persist?  Will my happiness persist?  Or is that imaginary too?

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I'm sick.  Oh yes, sick.  Like feverish and sipon-ish (colds).  And I'm smoking cigarettes when the rain grows weary of it's constant downpour.

I sent you a message.  Today, like I do most days.  Like you do most days, I wait, and usually for nothing.  Today's no different.  Probably why I have tomorrow.

I'm still waiting.  Maybe when you do reply, it will be something worth talking about.  Until then, my cigarettes, and memories of smoking Reds beside you on rainy will keep me company.

cheers.

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