Sordid Past Lives.

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the moon is so bright and so full and so highly placed in the NYC skyline tonight.                   thought the sun had risen on the city.                                                                                                 – already –                                                                                                                                                I prefer the dark blue color of this devil town right before the dawn.                                                it’s when I find the only beauty in this godforsaken land.

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Can anyone actually love who they really love?

My neighbor followed me down the street. again.
a nice guy. I know. I know. the kiss of death phrase.
Standing half way between everything in this world, I listen.
He has broken up with the latest lady 15 years or so younger.
She’s been crying. The story repeats. She cries, while she works, with him.
He reports telling her, “Why don’t you give those other guys more time. You may like them.”
I cringe. Physically, I cringe. He notices, but does not understand, like most men, sorry men. But not something you should say to the rocker chick, who loves you, and works with you~ in your home.
sigh and cringe, so I explain again, why this is something you should not say to the rocker chick who’s heart you just exploded.
Why does this have to be explained?!?
As I inch under the moon shine, closer to the deli, and farther away from the bland repetition of failed love & life. The usual question arrives… shit.
What about, “the guy”, he asks would I still want him? shit.
I should just give some other guys more time, he says using his phrase as a come on, eyes wide his frame physically reaching for me. shit.
Is love some strange chain reaction?
Everyone is in love with the person next to them? Dominos hit from behind, and colliding with forward momentum into the next.
I don’t know if I am more disappointed in love or love’s predictability. Predictability. definitely.