How have you changed?
I still write at 0200, which is a sign that I might never go to sleep.
I still sleep, which is a sign that I might never wake.
I still wake and still prefer the lilacs in the rain and the summer’s yellow paint over a laundry line dotted with red underwear.
I still believe that we must believe for sometimes faith all that’s left.
I still trust humans, for they are the only ones who can know my trust fully.
I wonder who trusts me and what the point is if truth is relative, if veracity is a question only asked for whom and for what, if it can be bent and warped, mended and repurposed.
I wonder what function I have taken on, which one I have decided upon myself, and which has been placed onto me.
I wonder what I don’t wonder about.
I reserve my reservations, hold them neat into lines that can be fit into the point of a cartoonist’s perspective, and allow a Universe with its happiness and sadness, anger and peace, majesty and dullness to wiggle out awkwardly.
I wiggle awkwardly.
I have friends I stay in contact with, friends who will read this and say one or two things that could be changed, that aren’t accurate, that make me seem more lonely or sorrowful than I am.
I am lonely. I am sorrowful.
I am less fit, meandering, and lazy, with a wire taut across the fence posts of my cheeks and a mouth that breathes darkness into the shape of this: I wish I were an angler fish if only to know that I could count on myself to glow when nothing else will. I am the sun in the ocean. I am the light that never goes out.
I am tired and I turn off the light but there is still something I wish to say and I open this computer and I type that I’m still me and I look at the sentence hoping for it to say something to me for I am still me reading me but I don’t understand me, and I and me thinks what that could mean but the night wears on and I wear on with it and somewhere, an angler fish swims waiting for flesh like me.