Missing

You know something's wrong when you stay up late, roaming the night, every night, hoping that each extra hour will somehow lead to whatever it is that'll make things right, whatever's missing, whatever's wrong.

You know you've got it wrong when every time you set yourself down you

curse "Goddamnit," at the you you've been, no matter which you, no matter where.

But damnit, whatwhowhere am I?

Why can't I ever feel like me, really me, anymore except when I'm hurting or loving or missing the things I love?

What's with all these me's? There's supposed to be only one. Oh, but he's there, underneath, watching as the rest live his life, feeling the joys and pains when they laugh and cry, mutely watching the TV show of his life.

Well, damnit, that's what's wrong, then, and that's what I'm looking

for:

Me.

 

I find him, sometimes, while roaming late at night through the refuges of brightness, the sirens wailing lost in the distance, echoing the wail of Steely Dan lonely horns inside my head.

I find him lost in long, empty places as lonely as he is.

We step together in the loneliness, and become one for a moment,

Myself once more.

 

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