Old Friend

You talk of San Francisco, piercings and nights out

while I just listen. Nothing to add. Nothing’s really happened.

I’ve moved into a smaller house.

I do the same thing everyday.

I don’t go out with friends.

I don’t have friends anymore. Just people that used to know me.

I still dream of Los Angeles, of success.

But I’ll never be a best seller if I don’t write the book.

I’ll never be a screenwriter if I don’t read the scenes.

My roommate tells me about her screen adaptation,

not knowing that she’s stolen my dream.

How would she? I never tell her anything.

I can’t bear to look at the Ravens anymore.

All they seem to say is “failure” as they fly further away from me.


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