Talk

We talk about "love like the whole world", but we don't know a fucking thing
about it. We want to be movie characters; that romantic comedy ending
that plays for Sunday matinee schoolgirls and bitter intellectuals.

We talk about the future like we have a single clue of how it will look.
I'm going to live in a cabin. I'm going to have a two-car garage.
I will never settle down, and you will never be able to find me.

We talk about finding the one, and we're convinced that we have
when we find someone we've never known before. I've never seen
the cut of his jib before. Her scent is from far away places.

These things are important. These things are not love.

We talk about happiness like it's something permanent, like a disease;
once we catch it, it will never go away. We'll have to call former lovers
and tell them of the diagnosis. It's only right (and we're all about being right.)

We talk about our lives like they're worth talking about.
We are not special. We are not unique. We are painfully unoriginal.
And the loves of our lives will smell it on us. We can't hide the scent.

We've been damaged and tainted, brainwashed and slightly bruised.
We've done too much living and not enough in the same useless breath.
We were banished from our homes to look for new ones, only to find

the new homes don't want us either.