I remember when I used to write poems.

In my dreams you still look the same, but you've finally started behaving in a more dreamlike manner. Now you make excellent suggestions about our plans for the future and we don't have arguments that end with you stomping off, saying, "Fine, I'll sleep on the murphy bed."

Last week I found catharsis in writing and sending a lengthy letter I'd been composing in my head for nearly two years, only for its response to be one line, an incomplete sentence even. I think, I hope, I can say now that I am finally disenchanted, but ask me in another year and I might be writing the same kind of entries. But if it is true, if it works, maybe I just need to write one more letter, and I will finally be free. I will not be disturbed by billboards and I will see a movie no matter who's in it, and why shouldn't I? Why does one insignificant person have so much affect on my life. They must not be that insignificant then, right? But aren't they? They are. Then why am I still dreaming of them.

Did I say maybe in one year I'll still be writing about the same thing? Maybe even two. A poem from two years ago:

Walking Home Alone at Midnight Barefoot

When once amusement was
failing to scale a fence
in a pencil skirt, it is now
realizing I was a footnote
in one of your chapters
while you were my whole book.