I, I don't know
I suppose
I suppose I do it for the pale blue dragonflies.
Translucent wings that shimmer in the light of a setting sun over a quiet river of gun metal grey.
The bats. They flutter about like scraps of a night you wish you could revisit.
I do it for the girl sitting alone at the end of the bar.
Freshly painted fingers spinning a beer while her eyes dance between her phone and the window.
For the ones that feel so alone they wouldn't recognize the sound of their own voice.
I write.

A single leaf floats alone down a crystal brook.
Shimmers of sunlight and mossy shorelines.
In my youth,
I'd imagine myself on that leaf.
From that perspective
the world could remain as it is.
While at the same time,
be new to me.
A super positioning of perspective.
The world being two different things at the same time.
I didn't see this tiny version of me as adventurous.
Gripping the edges of the leaf, wind blowing through my hair, staring excitedly at what lies ahead.
Nope.
In fact, I was sleeping.
It seems no matter the perspective,
I'd just as well not be there for it.

Consider this.
As you're reading this. There's this creature called a demodex. In fact, there's thousands of billions of them. They're not entirely unlike you despite they're relatively short life span.
They hatch about three days after being deposited. They spend four days eating and learning about the universe, where they stand in the grand scheme of things.
Then they start with the ***. It's not the sweet rose petal on the bed "I'll try not to get it in your hair" ***. It's the raw, unapologetic, "I don't even care enough about you to ask your name" ***.
This roundabout of ****** and gorging goes on for another seven days, and then they die.
Though I imagine that last seven days would be wondrous. Just a non-stop ******* session of apathy and gluttony rolled up like a taquito. They're spraying their ***** about like firemen trying to coral a brush fire. All while stuffing the other end of their bodies with the flesh of the dead.
For the record. They're skin cell mites that live in your hair and on your face. Wash all you want, they'll be back. Your face is the VIP lounge of a Japanese massage parlor and they're not leaving.

Look down at your feet. Those are your shoes. You get that, right? You get that those are your shoes and yours alone. And you certainly wouldn't try to force anyone else to wear your shoes.
The same goes for your ****** religion.

And your needs. I care more about the average amount of precipitation in the month of November along the Shenandoah river than I do your needs. I expect the same amount of apathy from you concerning my needs.

The sunrise startles her bones to stir,
they grind against her will to get up.
She mourns the moon,
reluctantly tolerates the sun.
Another passive aggressive morning,
another cigarette.
Her thoughts fall through space,
trying to remember a time.
Until her mind hits a wall,
like a wet sponge.
Having to acknowledge,
that there was never a time.
Still, she turns to herself
and gives her a grin.
It'll happen someday
when.

Should I write another batch of words
to appease and placate your ego?
Or should I write about us, when, and
those places we would go?

Honestly my hands grow tired,
they're simply losing steam.
They're starting to wonder if you're real
or are you just another bad dream.

Forlorn emerald eyes gaze out,
over fields in crimson hues.
Skin of buttercream frosting,
and a heart that sings the blues.

Wherein would I have found you,
if not I needed a drink.
Probably somewhere in the back of my mind,
where I go to think.