Stuck up, in the trees.

I presume to know my own mind
most of the time,
busy from the day’s time-wasting
Euphoric, but
losing track of how I spend it.
Keeping gauge with goodbyes,
but you and I don’t talk much anymore.

I assume you think about me
in terms of more than what I am.
I’m bordering on unhealthy, here
ready to chalk it up to
Insecurity, but then I’ll just be
another anybody
I can’t help but feel truth is subjective anyway.
I’ve lost track, but I think I remember
you and I don’t talk much anymore.

Exploring a potential reality, I’m
on a race to discover life.
I admit I wouldn’t know what to do right now
if it wasn’t just about me and the cat.
She has me for warmth
and I own the beauty of freedom,
but this all feels a little empty without
a you.
And I don’t talk much anymore.

All I guess I left behind,
seems to summon my memory
at the best of times
at the worst of times
I fear retribution
for my state of being alive.
I fear resentment
for my occasional content
and, really,
I don’t talk much anymore.