Common Courtesy

Didn't she know how she looked? The mole by her nose had several hairs growing out of it and it seemed that tweezers should have made it into the basket.
“Have a nice day,” Tom said as he placed the receipt in the plastic bag.
“Oh, I always do honey.”
Her jerky gate made him wince. How could he stop himself from judging people like this? He didn't know this woman, what her struggles were, or anything about her really. He gave a quick shake and cleared his mind before scanning the next items coming down the belt.
“Hi Tom, how are you doing today?”
There was something slightly familiar in the voice and face, but there were simply too many people to catalog.
“Oh, fine, just fine, how about yourself?”
“Well, Stan and Marsha were at it again this morning. You know it's hard for me to believe that siblings can be so nasty to each other. And of course it's up to me to try and maintain the peace, but honestly its these little trips away from the chaos that I need.”
The woman wasn't looking at him as she rifled through her purse. Tom often heard little snippets like this, and as was his usual, he put on the sympathetic face and nodded in agreement.
“Well I hope you bring the troops in line.”
The cold shock of rage in her blue eyes caught him off guard. He handed the bag of milk, cereal, bread and eggs over to her and felt his smile fade.
“Excuse me?” she said ripping the bag out of his hands.
“I'm sorry mam, I um...” He felt at a loss for the appropriate cliché apology. The laser beam glare of intensity emanating from her was so unexpected, but like a deer in headlights, he was too startled to look away.
“Tom, when I come in here and--” Tom braced himself, but the woman dropped off abruptly at the rattling sound of carts as they came through the double doors. She glanced back up at him and gave two small shakes of her head that were hardly perceptible before spinning away, her heels clacking on the tile floor.
“Wow, what was that about?”
Tom looked up to see a heavy set man in jeans and a flannel shirt. A case of beer and a bag of chips rolled down the conveyer belt.
“It must have been something I said, but I'll be damned if I know,” Tom said.
“Probably just her time of the month then,” the man rocked back on his heels and chuckled. Tom was disgusted by the way he shamelessly watched the woman walking away.
“Did you find everything alright?” Tom asked.
“Yeah, I sure did,” he said.
Tom logged in a few more hours of pleasantries and small talk. His elbow was beginning to act up on him again, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. Just before he was about to hang up his apron and name tag, he heard his name on the intercom.
“Hi Tom, could you have a seat?” Larry had replaced Jim as the store manager a year ago. His manicured nails and expensive suits seemed out of place in the store, but it was his pungent cologne that was the running joke.
“Well, I was about to head out, but what can I do for you Larry?”
“Please sit Tom.”
Tom sat down and felt immediate relief. The faux leather swivel back chair had some sort of shock absorber. Larry's Formica desk had neat stacks of paper and a sleek looking laptop that was closed. There were no family pictures in the office, but an enormous abstract painting in varying shades of red hung on the wall.
“Tom, I need to ask you about what happened today.” Larry said.
“Sure Larry, go ahead and ask me,” Tom smiled, but Larry's expressionless face seemed to harden. His hands were folded on his desk and for a moment neither of them said anything.
“Tom, do you agree that it is your duty to be polite and courteous to our customers?”
“Well, of course Larry.” He didn't appreciate the condescending tone of the manager that was at least ten years his junior.
“Are you aware that I was on the phone with a certain Samantha King for two hours this afternoon trying to smooth things over?”
It didn't take long to make the connection.
“Well no, how could I possibly know what you've been up to Larry? I've been down stairs all day, but I also don't know what it was that got the woman so upset.” Larry nodded and leaned back in his chair.
“So you do recall the woman I'm referring to?”
“Yes, she came in and started talking about her kids, and I wished her luck and she got all huffy.”
“You wished her luck?”
“Yes, I mean like I said, I have no clue what got her so upset.”
Larry picked up a gold cased pen and jotted something down on a yellow legal pad.
“Tom, she told me something very different.” Tom waited a moment for Larry to continue and raised his eyebrows.
“And?”
“Do you remember exactly what you said?” Larry asked. He tapped the end of the pen on the pad of paper three times to the word 'exactly'.
“No, I don't remember what I said verbatim, but I guarantee you it was both friendly and courteous.”
“You don't remember?”
“Larry, could you just tell me what the hell this is all about.” Another pause and then Larry swiveled to look at the painting on the wall.  The theatrical run around was beginning to get to Tom as was the sickening sweet aroma of the man's cologne.
“Mrs. King informed me of the calloused thing you suggested.”
“What? I did no such thing!”
“What did you say Tom? I must say I find it a bit disturbing that you don't remember.”
“Jesus Larry! You can't expect me to remember everything I say to everyone throughout the day and--”
“Watch yourself Tom, I will not tolerate insubordination.”
“Alright, alright,” Tom said. He took a deep breath and nearly gagged on the room's fumes. “Larry, just tell me, what did she say I said. Could you please just tell me what this is about.”
Larry was still looking at the painting.
“Tom, have you ever served in the military?”
“No.”
“Do you have any family members that have served?”
“Sure, I think my uncle was in the marines, but why do you ask?”
Larry nodded a few times and then swiveled to face Tom, the golden pen tapping an erratic rhythm on the pad.
“Can you imagine what it's like to lose someone you love in war?”
“Oh, did Mrs. King lose someone? Is that what this is about?” Tom was struggling to put the pieces together. None of this made any sense.
“Well yes Tom. Mrs. King lost her husband in the war two months ago.”
“That's awful.”
“So when you go and start suggesting that her children join the war effort, you can see how this poor widow might become upset?” Larry placed the pen down next to the yellow pad, folded his hands and leaned forward on his desk.
“What? I didn't tell her to do that!”
“Well, what exactly did you say? Because according to Mrs. King you told her to enlist her two children.”
Tom's mind reeled. He went over the encounter that had started out so ordinary. What had he said? He remembered her talking about her kids bothering her, or maybe they were fighting with her or one another. Everything was fuzzy in his memory accept for the woman's look of rage. Those blue eyes were so bright and vibrant in his mind. The perfumed air was beginning to make his stomach churn.
“Larry, that is not at all what I said. I think I said something about keeping her kids in line or something, but--”
“Wait a minute. You told me that you wished her luck a moment ago.” Larry tapped at what he had scrawled on the pad.
“Well yes, I mean I think, but I certainly didn't--”
“Perhaps 'certainly' isn't the correct word Tom. It seems more and more that you are anything but certain.”
Tom opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. He knew that other clerks could remember names and faces, but after fifteen years in the store, everyone seemed to coagulate into an amorphous nondescript entity. If someone had a feature that stuck out, Tom tried to overlook it. He felt that he was getting better and better at not casting judgment. Above all and he was sure to remain polite and positive.
“Unfortunately Tom, Mrs. King has made some demands and doesn't want to let this go. I won't get into the details of what she's threatened, but suffice it to say that the store would suffer, and I can't let that happen.”
“I'm sorry Larry, I still don't know what it is I said, but I will be sure to apologize.” The sour feeling in his stomach was accompanied by growing tension in his shoulders.
Larry nodded and his eyes softened. “Tom, I'm afraid she doesn't want an apology.”
“Well, what does she want?” But he already knew. Larry looked down at his desk and made a few more marks on the yellow paper.
“I'm sorry Tom. You've been a great asset to this store. Truly exceptional Tom, but Mrs. King has--”
“Just wait a God Damn minute Larry!”
“Watch you're language. This is the type of thing that got you in this mess to begin with.”
“Larry, you sit there like some sort of--” Tom stopped. He couldn't go on without further damaging his future.
“I'm sorry Tom.”
“Don't be sorry Larry. Don't say anything more. Please, just let me fix this.”
 “I'm sorry Tom.”

Doug and Maple

“Any day now Maple.”

“You mean any year. They don't even know you're alive. Not in any meaningful way at least. Even if they did, what makes you think they'd care?”

“Why do you always have to embrace the negative?”

“Doug, you've never seen humans for what they are. They kill us. They make houses out of us. If you became one of them, you'd do the same thing.”

It was a conversation both of them were tired of having. After five decades of debating the merits and faults of humanity, they had agreed to disagree. But every couple years Doug had to pipe up and say something stupid. Maple was convinced that Doug's fixation was not only irrational but a symptom of some illness. Perhaps he was carrying a beetle of some sort under his bark that whispered all this nonsense.

“Not everyone is like that. Remember that kid who climbed you?”

“Oh, the little brat that ripped off my branches a decade ago?”

“That boy loved you Maple!”

“He just wanted to get up high. I was so scared the little guy was going to fall out of me and hurt himself. Human's aren't very bright.”

“Not very bright? Do you remember when those guys were able to telepathically greet each other over the internet?” It was a absurd question. Of course Maple remembered. They had both felt the WiFi signal transmit and were duly impressed.

“So they're finally beginning to wake up. But you and I are awake. We know what is real and they still don't. They can already talk to each other in the garbled language, but they can't hear what's really going on.”

“But they're close. They're getting there, and when they find me--”

“Doug, they will never learn about you or me. And like I have said thousands of times, even if they do, they won't care about you or me. Any of us.”

Doug looked up at the small cotton puff of a cloud. No rain today. That was alright. The cloud muttered an apology before dissipating completely.

Another decade passed.

“See how many they planted! Did you feel the love Maple?”

“Yes Doug, I did, but it's nothing more than self preservation. They're getting desperate.”

“No, I think they're waking up. They're right on the edge and just need a little nudge.”

“Doug, it's too late. The Amazon is gone, and...” It hadn't rained in over a year and neither of them wanted to mention anything to do with water.

Doug had heard Maple's sobs a few months earlier. The poor girl was losing her leaves in August. He had tried to think of something nice to say, but she became furious with him for even pondering pitying her.

“We need to get out of this soil Maple. You and I need to make it, and I know it sounds selfish and I should be more empathetic with our kind, but I just can't help but feel that everything the humans are doing will pan out.”

“Pan out? You mean that they'll be okay?” Maple was furious, but Doug looked at her with such hope and earnest belief that she burst into laughter. A paper thin wisp of bark curled upward in the sun, and though it burned like a heat blister Maple's laughter spun outward.

“Have you ever been happy being a tree Doug? I mean seriously. You always talk about humans and how wonderful you think they are, but what about you? What about your life? It seems like you waste all your time marveling over what you can never have.”

“Once again, it seems to me that you are taking the glass is half full approach.”

“There is no glass Doug. There is no water.” Immediately after mentioning the word, Maple regretted it. Doug softened his gaze.

“We're going to be okay, Maple. Don't worry, they'll save us.”

The little rock around the little fire ball in the little galaxy spun and spun. Time flexed its grip on mortality and humanity continued to innovate. Maple and Doug listened to it all with the critical awareness of two souls awaiting a miracle.

Futility Monkey

Panic isn't the word. I don't know if Mid-Life-Crisis sums it up either. How about loser? Sure, I'll embrace that. I'll wave that flag, and I do so with a grin of despair, smearing my mottled complexion of woe and confusion. No amount of books or videos I consume can adequately mute the raging of the demon of drive that seems to have pricked its ears up recently. What happened? It's difficult to surmise, but it appears my reflection is becoming a bit less muddied. A tad more clarified, and I see the waste of space and time that is me.

So many of us now. We humans are mold on a piece of bread, that is the earth, and we are consuming it with ravenous abandon. And like mold, there will be nothing useful left once devoured. Unlike mold, what was green and flourishing will dry to a crisp and die.

So why does this monkey perched upon my shoulders holler about my lazy good for nothingness? I don't know. It breeds anxiety and incites me to write shit such as this. I don't know what to do, and what's more, I lack the drive to follow through. I have no ambition and everything in life comes easy. Paralyzed with food stamps, and a smidgen of disability pay, I sit in the wealthiest nation on earth. The planet spins and I sit. The youtubes stream, the music thumps, and I see the reality of my life for what it is.

I am less than nothing because I take up resources. I turn the bread, that is this earth, to useless mush. It's true that I don't take up many resources, and when I consider the 8 billion people mulling around, I feel less of a burden. They crank out products, they forge relationships, they live life to the fullest or struggle for survival. They churn and burn and scream to the heavens as the wealthiest toast their success with their peers. And me? And my purpose? I thought it was writing or perhaps it was making music. Then I thought that poetry or perhaps digitally enhancing video footage would be my calling. But no. Alas, without the hungry belly and grim reaper threatening to take me, I lack the incentive to create.

But this monkey. This demon of anxiety and deprecation that destroys my ability to appreciate what I produce is calling for a much more radical solution. Know thyself. It's an old proverb and one that echos in my mind when I'm at my highest peaks and lowest valleys. Does it matter? Without knowing the answer of life's big questions, namely, what happens after death, it seems that suicide can be ruled out. Eight billion is a lot. Perhaps the solution is to see the bigger picture. But what if life is eternal? Will I not be punished in the next go around for my buzz killing slothful indulgence? If there is a hell, it is my fate. But as it is my fate, and there is nothing I can do to change it, I can only hope that whatever started this whole mess is summoned to atone for the catastrophe that is life.

Sharp teeth dig into meat and pain is inflicted in a world that eats itself. The weight of consciousness is heavy, but things like money and material ease drive the human into a mad competitive frenzy of attainment. Some turn away, but how rare is that? Sometimes someone with a fortune will drop out, but often it is the weak and confused that allow their minds to be swept clean and embrace doctrines of dogma and spirituality. It is usually they that deny their flesh to strengthen their spirit.

Perhaps it is evolution that created this monkey of mine. Does my mind realize it is trapped within a broken body? Is it the hundred thousand years of evolution locked in my DNA that cry out to be challenged? Is it God? There is nothing to do and nothing to be done accept live and let live. Bacon and eggs from factory farms and thank you China for everything you've made. What more? Shall I write my story? I do have a story. But the voice of futility bombards my will to do so. Is there not enough to read? And what inspiration, if any, could I bestow upon anyone to make any difference?

My view is too global and education has corrupted my sense of responsibility. Nietzsche and nihilism compete with Jesus and Buddha, but in either case my life and efforts add up to zero. If my soul is eternal, I hereby plead to whoever created it to spare me the karma of my deserved atonement. I have consumed much and produced very little. I have indulged much and abstained seldom. Forgive me? How can one be created and ask to be forgiven? No, perhaps it is the concept of guilt that is the true evil. Maybe it is the monkey that is taunting me into action that I should seek to destroy. But tomorrow and the next day, what am I to do in this suit of useless skin, this paralyzed meat suit?

Pleasure is hard to come by and sharp pins and needles threaten to submerge my peace of mind into a sea of true discomfort. But the physical is beyond my control. What is, simply is, and there is only moment by moment that I should dwell in. But life! How cruel a God, if there is one. Hard teeth sink into muscle and tear tendon from bone. And what for? What is it all about?

A job. Help American's consume Chinese goods. Help friends live more comfortably. Help entertain. Help uplift. Help raise the vibe because.... the monkey is no good. He needs to be vanquished. If I do have a soul, it cries out for vindication. Circles and circles and dead ends of reasoning have made me think the towel should be thrown in the ring. Know thyself, loser.

Mosquito

In Central Park near a pond, two hipsters sat on a park bench looking morose when...

“Ouch!” 

“There was a mosquito.” 

“So?”

“So it was biting you.”

“It was just trying to eat.”

“No, females take blood to their babies, and one drop can feed thousands.”

“Whatever.”

“Well, there's nothing worse than a high pitched whine at night. It seems like they target my ears.”

“So we should just kill them, right? Like their very existence is an intolerable nuisance.”

“Hey, are you really offended right now? Are you seriously advocating the rights of mosquitoes?  Admit it, you're just a little pissed because I slapped you.”

“Don't flip this on me, answer my question first.”

“Yes, mosquitoes are evil, they should all die. We should round them up and put them in camps and gas them all--”

“Whoa! Butt hurt much?”

“You know I hate that term.”

“Just saying, you seem a bit defensive.”

“Yes, I'm defending myself and my God given right to slap as many mosquitoes as possible.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“You know what I mean. There must be a biological reason why we hate the sound of their buzzing wings. All mammals hate mosquitoes. My dog bites them out of the air.”

“Your dog licks its asshole.”

“Well he can't use toilet paper or take showers without thumbs, but what does that have to do with killing mosquitoes?”

“Using an animal's behavior as some sort of ethical meter is not convincing. I'm just not down with you or your dog's righteous crusade against the mosquitoes.”

“Righteous? So this is a religious thing with you now?”

“Not religious. You know I'm agnostic, but as a conscious human with a sense of right and wrong, I place things in varying shades of gray.”

“And mosquitoes are what? Some sort of black zone? Is killing them in the ultimate no-no category?”

“Well I certainly am not making the golden halo around my head shine any brighter when I don't slap them, but it makes me happy when I consciously resist the urge. It's taking a life when the itch really isn't that bad.”

“Oh my God. I don't know if we can be friends.”

“What?” --Laughs-- “So you're like the Nazi who found he's been talking to a Jew?”

“Now who's using stupid analogies? Jews never woke Hitler up at night with a high pitched whine trying to suck his blood--”

“Says you...”
"What?"
"Joking, go on."

“Okay, if you're not slapping mosquitoes, that means that you are donating your blood to thousands, maybe even millions or billions, of baby mosquitoes that will come try to suck my blood. Not cool.”

“And why can't you just deal with a little itch?”

“It's more the noise of their wings, but did you know that malaria has killed half the entire human population? If you added up every human, from cave men on, half of them died from malaria.”

“No, I didn't know that, but I don't see how that's relevant, being as we don't have malaria here.”

“Mosquitoes is how it's relevant! They're out to kill us.”

“No, some are guilty of carrying a virus that may kill some people, but not us. That's like saying that people with AIDs are out to kill us because they're infected.”

“No, it's like saying mosquitoes are like psychopaths with AIDs that try to have unprotected sex and share as many needles as possible--”

“Excuse me, but a close friend of mine just found out they have HIV, so could you show a little more sensitivity please?”

“Your the one who used it as an example.”

“I know and I regret it.  No more analogies please, can we agree on that?”

“Okay, whatever, but Jesus, this whole sensitivity thing is going too far when you start letting mosquitoes bite you just to feel holier than thou.”

“Hey, I'm no saint, but as an American, I know how much the rest of the world suffers, and if not slapping a mosquito, and dealing with a temporary itch, helps me feel more in touch with humanity, than I don't see how I can be accused of anything... unsavory.  I'm controlling my life and trying to live in peace with my fellow earthlings.”

“So that's why you're going vegan.”

“Yes, and factory farming is evil.”

“Sure it's evil, but whether or not you consume  fast food burgers, the industry will still churn out the meat of those tortured animals.  There's a hundred million Americans in line for it right now.”

“It's sick.”

“It is.”
"The hormones and antibiotics."
"Disgusting."

“So how do you justify those occasional lazy cruises through the drive through?”

“I don't. I know it's disgusting.  I'm weak, but when I think about the insanity, and life on this planet with the oceans rising, and the rest of the mess, I can't help but think it doesn't make a lick of difference whether or not I eat a Jumbo Jack."
"It did to the cow who lived in a tiny pen surrounded by shit its whole life."
"Hey, I get that, but if I'm not mistaken, we're both wearing clothes made by Chinese people who were basically working for slave wages, so please don't claim to be on the high road."
"Well at least I'm not eating them."
"Really?  So you're saying it's okay?  The animals should be frolicking in open spaces, but the Chinese people putting microchips in iPhones 16 hours a day aren't prisoners of a corrupt world that you help perpetuate with irresponsible consumption."
"I'm not saying that it's a fair world, and you're right, I probably should have looked into getting a fair-trade phone but I'm not going to just give up on the rest of my choices.  I'm still going to try to live with compassion."
"What about the millions of bacterial skin flora that you annihilate every time you wash your hands?  Are you going to stop bathing?"
"No, I'm not delusional.  I know that life and death are inevitable, but I want to limit my impact."
"Within reason."
"Yes, and I promise not to go off the deep end and join some cult."
"That's great, but I'm definitely not losing any sleep over the thousands of mosquitoes I've slapped.”

“Well that's where you and me are different. I'm trying to change myself even if the world doesn't notice.”

“I still think mosquitoes are evilness with wings incarnate, and I think this sensitivity thing of yours is a phase.  So if we're going to hang out, you can't tell me not to slap them.”

“Okay, but I can tell you not to slap them on me, and you can't tell me that I should kill them.”

“You should kill them.”

“You're an asshole.”

“I know.  Why else would my dog lick me?"

Symple Mistake

Can you try and show some sympathy? Obviously empathy is out of the question here. What the symbol represents to me, that erect thumb protruding from the fist... you probably can't fathom the shame that engulfs me. But on the other hand, you can't protest with a plea of ignorance any longer.

We are finding the courage to ask, to beg: please stop. 

I like to post just as much as anyone with an internet connection, but please don't “like” my posts.  Post traumatic stress is not a joke. My amygdala fires and I flash back. It's there in my mind: the white plastic gloved hand and blue cuffed work shirt...

No, I don't think it is appropriate or necessary to tell you what the exact scenario was in my case, and there are scores of confessions that make me feel as if I've retained some innocence, some precious naivete.  My ultimate goal would be to forget entirely, but I, and so many others like me, need help, sensitivity and cooperation before we can begin to heal.

Even now I can see that little blue and white binary idol, like a screen shot in my mind, and every time I log in, it's there to greet me. With a ding on my phone, or a buzz in my pocket... no more.  Please.

 I've written app developers and gone through an email gauntlet of insanity.  But with countless hours and phone calls routed throughout the world, I keep running into the same firewall of menace. The thumb reigns, and the network laughs. Thumbs Up. Up what?

But I'm not the only one stepping into the light.

We're forming a coalition for equality and campaigning for true net neutrality. As fellow users of a free internet, we will end this symple mistake. We seek out vindication and peace for our cyber community. We raise our fist to stop the thumb.

#symplemistake

We need your help to create this sustainable sacred space.  Help us stop this misguided form of antisocial networking.  There is an ever increasing number of victims who are finding the moxie to speak out, but so many  more are still too ashamed or afraid of discriminatory repercussions.  

Help us.  The fear and chemical imbalances... the night terrors and heart palpitations inflicted by the need to click "like" must change.  The vote of approval should amount to something less prone to trigger emotional suffering. Let us appreciate a smiley face or some other universal kudos. Perhaps, this time, one lacking patriarchal effusion. A symbol less invasive, because right now, it is cyber sadism, plain and symple.  The soul slapping click of a mouse might be unintentional, and the fact is, most people do in fact like it.  They like getting thumbed even more than you like giving it.  Unfortunately it's a rampant cultural phenomenon, but now it is time to realize that this little dopamine burst of joy for you is pain and anguish for we few.  Hear our voice.   How many times, and for how much longer? If not mercy, at least compassion.  Join, and our cause can only gain traction.

For those of you that do understand #symplemistake
If not for me, than for the children.

Lost Brevity

When you bet against yourself and win, you still lose.  You knew the impossibilities.  You were there, but still, you couldn't turn down the sweet aroma.  It drew you in; a siren song.  Had you known, would you have placed your hands over your ears and screamed?  No, it was a masochistic adventure for the sake of the adventure and now you're licking your wounds.  They were unavoidable and you knew it, so embrace the pain, the ache.  If you hold this ache in your heart and it examine it, you will find it dull, and  though it seems to consume you, there is a hint of sweetness like the metallic odor of a carcass left rotting under the hot sun.  Ponder this ache and cherish it.  There is no lesson, for if given the option, would you have it any other way?  You did not fail and you did not win.  You were rejected but are wise enough to know that this was salvation.

But damn you for the delusional hope that sprang up like a poisonous blossom.  This was sin.  The petals of your feigned ignorance now fall to the floor.  You tried to grab the reigns of another and drive them into your life. You let your hunger turn into a cunning animal and chose to stalk rather than observe in awe from a safe distance.  You stumbled and fumbled for this is a game you have long since forgotten.  Your words could not hide the salivating desperation and any attempt at humor was pitied.  Smitten idiot, did you not feel the change?  Guard your soul and do not let the wound heal without drawing upon the pain for guidance.  Let your future be one of happiness and know that if you walk through life alone you will be in debt to no soul.  Think of the pain you would have inevitably caused, the dry wind of familiarity that would wick away the last drops of this illusion--this brew of chemicals that is nothing but a temporary drive for the continuation of this lost species.  Do not banish the memories, but cling to the hurt more than the joy.  It is not a bitter pill to swallow for you are no longer young.  You have no right to hold a grudge against your fate.  Can you call her name without attaching it to anything but your own self indulgent wishes?  Recognize this and unbind the spell.

How long will this pain last?  How long do you think, or rather, how long do you wish?  Notice your dry eyes and wonder at your narrow brush with what could have been soul crushing.  You waded in the shallows thinking it not wise to plunge, yet you could not help but beg for an invitation.  Count yourself lucky.  Perhaps the short strange dance was everything you wanted.  What more could you have hoped for?  And with self deprecation she called out for an ending.  Know that this pain is nothing but a scratch compared to the jagged gash in her soul.  She can not help but hope, can not fathom the bitterness fading.  Have compassion. Do not tell her you understand, but let your silence speak for itself.   

Mystreason

She's a ninja so stealth like a knife razor edge, but as sharp as she slices I feel no regret.  She's a poet and throws out charisma in song unabashed and untrashed so young and so strong.  She is trouble that bubble behind not to look, but the memory forged like a childhood book.  And she stalks like a lion and darts like a snake and says that she's joking and then backs away.  The mystery solved would ruin the fun because under it all we would shake hands and be done.  But the puzzle has pieces still missing and sins.  The fate has a folly and can't really begin.  I know that I will and I can't so I won't but would if I could tell myself man, just don't! So the circle is drawn in the sand as a line.  A wave rushes in and I'm falling behind.  To cross is forbidden this cross, call it smitten, but posing as ancient when she's barely a kitten.  The span of a depth out of time and why not?  Cuz water flows down to the bed of hard rocks.  The knocking on doors in the night of my thoughts.  I can't give in, but shit yo, why not?  It can't and it won't but I will it to reason.  Friendship is perfect though it sure feels like treason.  When I think of it backward and chill the fuck out, but I look to the future and don't want to find out.  Time and the wave that I ride to the date.  To the island to find it's myself that I hate.  But the glory for me is the story she says.  On this we agree as a knot in the thread.  So thin and so cold in the night as I shiver and thoughts of the gift I will buy just to give her.  A token a scrap just a piece of my pie.  Then she'll cut me out just to lay down and die.