Imposter Jimmy Stewarts

Goodbye always betrays us. Calendars of skin counting off until we're over. Endless autopsies on the heart reveal a kingdom of killers.

Too many last chances later. We remember, but won't ever know. Who they were or we were to them. Empty cellophane. The candy tasted. Eaten.

Then shit back out.

We try to give. Like to pretend that we can save, if not ourselves, someone.

Celebrating what isn't there.

Wrapping paper. Torn off of pretty packages.

Only to find empty boxes were all that they hid.

Empty chimneys. No reindeer. Or fat men to blame for all that was missing.

Just people. Mostly ourselves.

What mightn't have been doesn't comfort me.