The last sighs of the night

Tiredly flee

Only to float with dismal disappoinment

Over you, over me.

The only things that matter

Are those which most emphatically don't

The fantasy of usefulness

To anyone but our end-all selves

Is more irritating than the others.

Comrades in housekeeping

When not evading reality's general distastefulness.

Imitation, imagination

Our escapes from actual action.

How to sleep without guilt

Over all the lives I've unwittingly attached myself to

When all the while floundering--

Somehow making my murky way to you.

(Is it possible to ever avoid this?

What happened to my sense...of committment?)

Did it end, did it die

With the death of my will

Most sorely tested--

Curled up in a ball of paper

With my self-redeeming destruction?

I've failed no one but myself

And this is realization

In the freezing chill of summer's air-conditioned nights

Leaves me so exhaustedly awake.

How can I do anything for you

When I, myself,

(Made suspect already

Of abandoning all defining characteristics

In order to avoid any semblance of conflict

With yours)

Have x-ed myself away from this, our shared reality?