My eyes were swollen with self deprecation,
crying seemed like a good idea,
but even that would not quell this engorging,
I broke my own heart with the wrong kind of regiment,
none of this was working,
I was rewinding everything,
trying to recall jogging in the rain,
under ficus trees,
feeling claustrophobic,
suffocating,
unable to see forward,
I was a desperate soul,
always had been,
desperate for things to be the way they used to be,
and when I was questioned for such nostalgia,
I dreamt of lives lived long before mine,
I slept with notions of civility,
of Thursdays full of fog and bathtub gin,
and fishnets admired by the best of them,
and the rest of them,
My eyes were nearly shut in times like these,
they got so big looking backward,
rolling in and out of consciousness,
so I could wet my appetite with ides of manufactured enchantment
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