(trulysorryforthetimeimadeyoucry)

It's one fifty one and I'm am exausted.
I can't sleep, once again falling victim to the late afternoon nap. Tonight I feel restless and old. I wonder if luck has abandoned me and if there is some all controling deity in the universe. waxing poetic with my new best friend the keyboard I sneak out past my brother (sleeping on the couch quietly) and exit the building armed with a cup of tea and a couple of cigerrettes.
I've been thinking again. This for me can be dangerous.
Insomniac fuge, clicking and surfing to the taste of lemon and honey. I stumble completely on purpose over picture of an ex-girlfriend. She looks happy with her new former boy. I smile at her image and it brings back memories of another life. One where I was reckless and selfish, it all seems lost in shadows. Was I really so bad back then that I forced myself to leave someone who tried so hard in so many ways to love me? I ponder for a moment.
Yes and no, we both had our faults. My largest being that I just refused to grow up. For some reason something she said floats back to me. She told me once, I don't remember where, that the sexiest thing is when a guy smells nice. Funny how those little things stick with you. Pressed like a summer rose between old parchment pages.
I've been lucky. I have dated, seen or just slept with some of the nicest, prettiest, kindest young women to walk the face of this earth. All in my prior incarnation much too good for me. They all taught me something and in a way I just wish I could say thank you. I wish I could go on some epic journey and tell them all face to face, one on one that even if it didn't seem like it at the time ; I loved each one of them for who they were. For what they gave me and for how they lived. More so how they lived with me.
These days I seem to be growing much more of an appreciation for those lovers that I passed by. I never knew how lucky I was. I've never tried to be an asshole but it seems that I have excelled at being one at times. The girls I never called the young women that I never treated the way I should have. Now, ironically , when I have my shit together the most I ever have had it together, I find my self walking alone at night. Along side the river that skirts my building wondering how each one of them are or what they are doing at that given moment of introspection. More than that, I just hope they are happy and that I left them with something as important as the things they gave me. Some passing phrase or kernel of knowledge that stuck with them in a positive way. I hope that they remember things that I did right not just my sometimes glaring faliures. These are the thoughts that occupy my mind as I smoke and sip and recant to myself tales of a dead age. These days I don`t so much feel lonely as I feel ready. Ready to share my self with someone special. Someone who is as passionate and heartfelt and genuine as some of the people I have let drift away; as some of the ones I have pushed away or I just plain let get away. I`m not rushing though. I just pray that my luck has not run dry and that somewhere out there is someone like me. Writing honestly about the way they feel and hoping that they get the chance to do things the right way. I used to joke around in the company of old friends that I was an artist and a poet and a muscian. Us folk, us creators we were in the business of breaking hearts. These days I feel honest when I say to a friend in passing that those days of self-importance and narrcisisim are gone (the days of shitty spelling and grammar they still hang like late summer heat). These days I feel better when I can make a girl laugh and smile and feel not just moan and cry and curse (not that I enjoy that I just thought it a nessacary part of life). I guess I`m growing up, who would have thought it could be true. One thing is for certain; even if the critics don`t agree, I am still a poet. I still like to write about girls, from now on though I would like to focus my attention on just one.