Between the Cracks She Slipped

There is a restlessness within.
One to which I cannot transcend.
An infinite lament.
A resonant ache lingers and deafens where the heart once beat euphonic.
Who have I become.
I am a wanderer of sorts.
Circumnavigating past and present.
Stumbling towards the unknown.
A product of my disillusions.
Head in the clouds, heart on my sleeve.
The fate of the idealist, the romantic, the dreamer is mine.
I love too much and too little too late.
I live and breathe in this city, but do I live and breathe.
Where have I been.
Where have I gone.
Where am I going.
Where am I.
Where are you.
I see faces and wear one, or two.
I pick up the mail; toss it back.
Go to work; leave.
Fill my mind with Dawkins and Hitchens and Sartre and Nin.
Drown the world in profound insights of musical genius.
Ask questions; search for answers...meaning.
Something, anything...
I evaluate scenarios and ponder absurdities.
I yearn for wisdom and solace, solidity and purpose.
In the dark I lie watching moonlight and streetlight and sirens.
I toss. I turn. I toss and turn.
I toss string for my cat.
Listen to his little racing heart... boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom.
Morning arrives too soon.
I want to reach, but hold back... a formidable endeavor to withstand.
If. you. only. knew.
You wouldn't believe me.
I talk myself out of you to tend to my heart.
For it's on the verge darling, of its demise.