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I can’t say I miss you,

because I can’t quite remember who you are.

But it’s one of those vague yearnings

for a nameless, faceless something

that would bring me back to who I was before,

when I was younger, more handsome

and full of passion and a…a…

— a joie de vivre — that now, no more,

I cannot seem to find, no matter how I seek.

Pity me, my young loves:

my cousins of forgotten joys;

my brethren of misremembered memories;

the ends and means of my countless, hopeless

quests to find something more, to seek, to fill

a hole, though less formidable,

still haunts me, terrorizes me, freezes me

in moments of listlessness.

Apologies will never be enough,

though I would so badly that they were,

tripping over myself to please and ameliorate,

taking great pains to keep within the lines,

sands crossed and recrossed (and regretted),

footsteps only now just fading with the times,

I try. I try. And still, I try, but…

Just knowing that hole exists

is enough to drive any man crazy

and any woman away.