none of this is poetry and I don't care

I dunno. Nothing to say. No, there is plenty to say but I am not able to do it. No, I am able to do it but I think my words are inconsequential. No, they’re of consequence, because I mean them. But saying them out loud, typing on screen, whatever: well. I dunno.

I suppose I believed myself when I said to send out love to the universe and let it distribute where it needs to be. I am trying to believe myself now, too. It’s not easy. And it’s not about me either, not really, only partly, I suppose.

I remember the last conversation. It was typically bland and slightly sweary and slightly mutually-insulting. The kind of insults that men say when they love each other. That was the long and short of it, and it was, as ever, a pause when the last things I said to him were:

👍

that's a left handed thumbs up

I wonder if they always are. Anyway. I go now goodbite

none of this is poetry

i don't care

for

words

sometimes