(I always archive my sketches and writing, just in case I need it in the future or something.)

I guess it’s really true,

That I am wrapped up in blue.

I found the bruising just for me,

where the disfunction is the key.

When I really needed to, I never moved on.

I just got used to the pain.

I’d sit out there waiting,

Twisting inside the rain.

I’ll never be true,

Not for as long as,

I’m still wrapped up in blue.

Your breath curled into clouds,

Fogging in the crisp air.

Your grey eyes were a shroud,

As the wind wisped your hair.

I like things obsolete:

Inefficient, retrograde, slow… outdated.

Fixing the faulty, wiring the Wi-fi.

Like painting a cel to be animated.

I’ll reach for the stars,

But we can be happy in the clouds.

Maybe we’ll make it to mars—

But I’ll never escape the crowds!

“Who carries a typewriter?”

I held it when you asked,

and I held on to it even tighter,

As a car rolled past.

High-beams outlining your shape,

Light pinpricks in your eyes,

Voice like an audiotape,

A reality disguised.

“I’ve always been a lamplighter—

Do you see any gas street lamps now?”

But I’m no script reciter,

Technology moves on, and how!

I inhaled, I beckoned,

“Stop looking at your phone.”

Think first, leap second,

Don’t give me a dial tone.

Every cure for nostalgia is gone,

Old dreams with shiny new veneer.

Lead-painted sun at dawn.

Second-hand frontier.

We’re now here,

And nowhere,

So here’s what we’ll do—

Not give in to despair.

It doesn’t matter what you get,

You keep on searching and giving.

We’re not under threat.

It’s not doing it for a living.

And I guess it’s really true:

Ars est, vita est.

And that I am wrapped up in blue.

