trifles.

some dogs who sleep At night 
must dream of bones 
and I remember your bones 
in flesh 
and best 
in that dark green dress 
and those high-heeled bright 
black shoes, 
you always cursed when you drank, 
your hair coming down you 
wanted to explode out of 
what was holding you: 
rotten memories of a 
rotten 
past, and 
you finally got 
out 
by dying, 
leaving me with the 
rotten 
present; 
you’ve been dead 
28 years 
yet I remember you 
better than any of 
the rest; 
you were the only one 
who understood 
the futility of the 
arrangement of 
life; 
all the others were only 
displeased with 
trivial segments, 
carped 
nonsensically about 
nonsense; 
Jane, you were 
killed by 
knowing too much. 
here’s a drink 
to your bones 
that 
this dog 
still 
dreams about. 

-Charles Bukowski

It is 4 am. If you’re going to text me and wake me up, there better be a fucking emergency or you are drunk. I do not like being woken up to texts that simply say *hug*. What the fuck. We broke up 3 years ago. Get a fucking life.