A Sequel to "Caffeine Ramblings"

prattling on in a less than one sided discourse over an evening cup of coffee, i let my eyes drift stage right to a weary faced lad clad in the purest hew of black i've ever spied. not since the era of me some eight to ten years prior have i seen such a worn down assimilation of bones hidden not-so subtle beneath a single coat of skin. marrow worn down to the nub of his numb fingers as he dials for what must be the umpteenth time the digits belonging to the pseudo-princess he aspires to make his personal frauline. over another cold sip whilst giving her an even colder shoulder, i forgo the drab bits of dribble of adjectives spitting from her lips in favor of reminding myself "i used to be him". the phrase gets scrawled, slapped mad spray-like across the expanse of my cerebrum. a sub-title to fit the subtext of me way back then when my eyes were lined, much like his, with beads of water that could be interpreted to the callous masses as "man-tears". in the wonder of what would come next, i used to sit, vexed in the same defeated posture as the crying kowtow child with "so much [LoVe] to give, if she only gave me the chance". peers, kin, and parents alike would laugh, and women will eek out an excuse of me simply being the guilty member of trying to find a diamond within the field of rough. but whats the plan B set of banter when you discover my beguiled acts of archaic chivalry, and the attempt to cultivate a garden in a state of weeds, is subject simply to the lay of the land?

while i lay adrift in the beaten down galleon of a giddy schoolboy's wish to get laid, my half center peers, and close friends subject to only half the portrait's image were knee deep in businessmen's daughter. looking at this sad swan sung of youth's derelict i'm reminded that i once was such a punch line. the assorted other who was an expert of making [LoVe] to himself, so long as his shirt stayed on. in the scope of conversations, just a passing gesture but never so much as a fancy to the walking-dead army of paper mache concubines and aspiring goddesses, who could mimic all the proper steps, yet tote not a single beat derived from natural rhythm of a human heart. for the question looms how do you [Love] when [LoVe] is but a myth? a lymric bit of fantastic fiction gauged by fringe science that sits betwixt God, Satan, Cupid, Icarus, and Aphrodite. as much emphasis that Shakespeare wrote into the ever-present red flush churning between Romeo's soul and heart at his be[LoVed] Rosaline's successor's visage, these days i'm more than convinced he was simply one solo-stroke away from describing a polar opposite image. if Romeo has simply carried out his collective duty to cast some wet spare parts unto the tap, his fire for her would have petered out long before the end of the first act.

as painful as each step was, i'm no such sapling, for i'm the pupa that learned his lesson. leaning more towards my own shame is the split second mirror image, casting shards into my drink as i watch him leave perhaps the most horrid of heartfelt messages ever uttered in the realm of 8-20 year olds. the inquiries of "where" and "when" assail my eardrums as i listen to his pleading for her pardon under the smug smirk of the full moon. my anger towards him is anchored at not the weight of his insipid baying, but at the fact i used to sing in a strikingly similar octave. because of him, i have to relive every negative comment. every misspent hope, every ignored V-day card, flower, and every thought of the stage left exit via the proper amount of rope. his shrink wrapped set of weepy eyes forces me to flash back to the day i was contorted into a laughing stock for giving a toss. the day i sliced myself open from sternum to stout chest, and spilled my contents onto a letter, only to have it be ripped into a million puzzle pieces as a symbol to announce she can do better. the times i wore said insides none-to-subtle after yet another slattern decided they'd look better on me worn on the outside. the day i sported a fine set of cuckold’s horns at the news she took the flesh expanse of however many others release under the excuse of one too many drinks. followed by the statement i'm at fault for her being a whore. the day i drove full speed like a madman into the abode of bedlam with a fist-full of bail-money to mop up her latest mistake. she didn't want my heart, didn't want my soul, didn't want my care, but that lonely bottle of vodka in my back seat she'd gladly take. the day my mother marred me with the scarlet A because of the aforementioned letter that still lay torn to tatters. the should have, could have, would have lecture pertaining to how it’s my fault. for every crayon colored excuse, every mal-spent bout of teething, my center shrank one size per sling, one fit per attempt to repair the remains, until eventually the point to mend lost all meaning. he reminds me of the day i awoke to face a world infested with walking legions of hurt hidden behind curves and lying in wait, but just so happen to be easy on the eyes.

but the queerest morsel of truth i found that day was that they [LoVe] you when you lie. you're the sultry reincarnation of Cyrano and Casanova combined when you invert the script and tell them that en mass they aren't worth your time. set one afire, and they'll flock moth-like to dance themselves into the pyre. when i stopped caring, they sprung to [LoVe] me for me, as i was too rare a catch to not be had, and too imperial a proper find. i was the iced cat's device that made them purr, no matter how callous, no matter how unkind. it was in the thicket of night's back pocket that i discovered the glee of gallivanting on the dark side. moonlighting from the shadows, sacrificing maidens to my ID as if it were some sort of archaic, angry volcano god. before i even mastered the craft of showing not the scantest bit of concern towards their tears, i was awash in the company of fair haired "angels" and tangerine girls. all of them willing, able, wet, and ready to plot themselves as the offer unto my spider's altar. not so vast as perhaps a five star harem, but enough to keep my carnal parts and half promises well fed. as a result i casted kindness, and that phantom limb carving of care into the earth, for in me they were albeit dead.

but this boy, this glass atolli bred bird ever teetering on the edge of the sidewalk, just fucked my entire routine of simply being sated with the stint of showing not a shred of consideration. his downcast face makes mockery of the one i used to wear, and applauds the memory of the meek version of me, who inherited the mound of shit and went crazed to the point of pulling hair. he's resurrecting the bronze age of yours truly. the one who prided himself on lying in a bed of poison-tipped push pins, and wearing a barb wire collar ridged "for her pleasure". he reminds me that despite the taste of ashes and iron i now ultimately leave in every effeminate mouth i kiss, the sketch of how i used to be can't be erased, and can never be dismissed. my ghost of heartbreaks past still haunts me on behalf of this lowly prototype of a post modern "nice guy". all the same i want to walk over. give him promise and hope with a big-brotherly hug, and a hand on his shoulder. tell him that there is solace to be had on the arctic tip at the end of this seamless never ending fray. but instead i simply take my drink, her, and threw them both away...

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