Busy buses, the friendly homeless man you smiled to while giving him your last two dollars you have in cash, the flight attendant that smiled and waved as you exited the plane, and the bartender down the block giving you something to cure the pain.


All are connected in some way, shape, or form. Life is all connections.

But, she was asking about him. Asking about soul mates. Asking those questions everyone wants the answer to. She wanted to know if the universe pulled us together.

She asked a novel of a question, only wanting to hear spoken words. I didn’t have the answer to her poem of life so, I texted it.
“you think we are connected?!”

Response: Of Course.

I responded to the question with the same simplistic answer I received. Still pondering the thought in my dreams.

She asked me a question, I want hidden from the rest of the world. She asked me something I could have answered 8 years ago. A question I can’t easily answer, now.

Hurt, makes positive connections hard. The older I grow, the more I start to diminish the idea of knights, and pretty girls waiting on a kiss to save their existence.

Soulmates turn into strangers.

Knights turn into men you thought would never hit you.

Pretty girls don’t wait for kisses, they cry at 6am when they realize the bed is empty on one side where it wasn’t when they shut their eyes.

Love is lost, and the older you grow the less people try to help you find where you might have misplaced it.

I guess, after all this you want to know if I think we are connected?

Response: Of Course.


Damn, they keep thinking I live in the real world. I live in my world. I created this with time and molding and great care. I sit and think and over think and think about my over thinking and then I write it all down.

I slow the world down occasionally because all the details are too complex to not re live. I take a hit and listen to some music and think of how dramatic it all really is.

I used to be similar to a black widow. Watching people fall in love with me and letting them. Letting them think the world of me; when really I didn’t care.

He makes me think. Think that maybe it all could be different. That it will all be okay. My addiction is getting strong. “Please Lord, don’t let me fall.” I have the worst time trying to recover.


“I miss you.”

He said I played a melody on keys worn out. I played with soul that could only know true heartbreak. He said in every note I made a beat he couldn’t get out of his head.

“I miss you.”

She told him I don’t play anymore. Told him her inspiration left. She wasn’t feeling sitting there pouring out her life for others to forget in two weeks.

“I miss you.”

He would have known if he asked. He would have seen it all over her. He didn’t bother before and he wasn’t going to bother now.

“I miss you.”

He always did seem to wonder why words never impressed me. Its because I knew I could write down those myself. I couldn’t mimic his actions.

“I miss you.”

She responded with….”It will pass”.


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