I’ve decided men are no good alone. I’ve also decided I hate that word - I hate the way it sounds, I hate the way it smells, I hate both definitions. But I like it better than oak, and I guess I like it better than loneliness too, and I like it better than the you who tossed the old tree-shaped air freshener out the car window long ago. I’ve decided you're no good for me. But that just isn't saying too much, and I hate the cheap lacking of anything good after the plastic falls off, or is thrown away. I’ve decided I’m not really here. At least, you don't smell like me with your earthy hues and moneyed tastes. And what is a man without riches? Or a fresh clean scent? I’ve decided to shed carelessly, and I hate the way it scatters the floor. No one dares walk barefoot for fear of needles, and you never knew how to skip. And maybe this is not about you. Maybe it's about step-you, or drunk-you, the you of my eight year old mind when the mornings were dark and crisp and the Christmas lights blurred the coming twilight. There are other words I hate you know - I hate muzzle, and beard, and laughter and sequins, and bathrobe, and tired, rhyme, and meat, and technology and hash, and divorce, and poem. And maybe this is about distant-you, the you that makes me feel like a cactus. Yet I have no mirage to entertain, no thirsty nomad to quench, no prairie dog to prick. I’ve decided that sunshine is for the best, its peeking beams welcome here. And maybe you never got your daily requirements of vitamin d, or zinc, or iron, or carrots, or chocolate, or broccoli. I’ve decided to be distant myself. The perpetual observer of half-truths, the naysayer, and blind prophet, and infidel, the skeptic, and gentile, and somatist, uncommital and lacking direction. I’ve decided lists keep me in check, and you know how much I need that. I love the satisfying feel of order and structure, and completion, and discipline. And what is a man without rank? I’ve decided that email is a friend, anonymous and simple, a level of removed. You never learned that slight of hand, disappearing quarters and detachable thumbs were always more up your alley. I’ve decided god is distant. Humanity's longing unanswered, like an international phone call we gleaned the special codes only to reach an answering machine. I’ve decided my face belongs in the wind. A constant struggle of erosion that cleanses when you aren't looking, until too much I let slip away leaving limbs bare to your touch. And maybe this is about never-you - never there, never ready, never willing, never touching, never playing, never hearing, never kissing, never seeing, never winning. And what is a never without a should? I’ve decided distance is a myth. Just as relative as Einstein’s clock, but no short and long hand to point the way. And what is a man without a bicycle? Or a golden pocket watch? I’ve decided that words are all I know - hated, loved, ignored, or misunderstood. I understand syllables and consonants and vowels. Dictating and diagramming sentences, instead of learning you. I’ve decided this may last forever, this back and forth, give and take tug of war that suits no one. You'd never let go of the rope, but the mud feels fine, I promise. I’ve decided my words are not worth much, at least that’s what you tell me. So I go on with my lists and my distance, and my hate and my reckless shedding until there is no more left of me. And we all know this is really about pine-you - a creature of ambiguity. Like the new moon, a celebration of nothingness. And you will remain lost to me, for after all, what is a man without longing?