I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of.

Sweet Christ, you must know that a man will go further for any poem than for any woman ever born.

Was I the only person who was distracted by this future without a chance?

It was only the matter of a new voice. Nobody listened to an old voice anymore. Old voices became a part of one's self, like a fingernail.

your letters got sadder. your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all lovers betray. it didn't help. you said you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and the bridge was over the river and you sat on the crying bench every night and wept for the lovers who had hurt and forgotten you.

Death is not the problem; waiting around for it is.

The crowd is the gathering place of the weakest; true creation is a solitary act.