who will love my ironies?

A wild ode mentioned at New West hotel over wine infusions, light, lit, lofted on very eventertaining moods, yawning in return, open nights, inviting everyone's song . . . .

There's a girl I used to know, who I guess you'd call whimsical, if anyone really used that word anymore--which they don't, which is a shame, because it's a good word. But that's what she was, and she was innocent and alive in a way that I'm not, and she liked me because I wasn't these things. I was jaded--or maybe, since we're using words nobody uses, world-weary. Like a detective in a noir film. I appreciated her joie de vivre because I did not have any, and I smiled to remember a time when I still saw poetry in the world. That's what drew me to her. She was poetry. She was something beautiful. I was just someone who'd been around too long, someone who had long ago killed and buried the young idealist I used to be.

I knew I'd only end up hurting her, but I let her in anyway. I keep saying maybe it was unavoidable, but no. I know just where I could have said no, could have changed everything. I don't think about that part of it anymore. I try not to think about her at all, but sometimes when the guests are filing out and I'm regretting opening that last beer, or when I'm getting ready for bed after a long day of distractions, I remember.

I let her in. I wish the worst I did was taint something beautiful with my cynicism, but it's always more than that. No, I ruined her. I took everything she hoped for away from her. I turned her out on the street with nothing. I heard she went home. She has her whole life ahead of her, but she has some scars to deal with first.

When I think of her at all, I wish I'd think of her more. I wish I could do something more. But if there's one thing I'm good at--one thing humans are good at--it's forgetting, until the day is over and there's no one left to help you forget. And that would be unbearable, but the morning always comes, bright and wonderful and full of opportunity to pretend nothing ever happened, especially not the things that define us.