an attempt.

Walking out on cliffs hanging gently
above the streets stained in sorrow.
There's not a sound I could make
that would register with anyone
or still be around
I'll be gone by then

I told you not to follow me
I'm not going anywhere new
At least not somewhere you'd
like to your lover someday
when there's nothing
to do;
I'm too busy standing still.

Empty as a cloudburst over oceans
Opals buried too far underground
Listening for whatever else
goes on when I'm asleep
I never wanted you to
be found;
I wanted you to be my life.
I cant exactly point out what i did not like in here but I did not like it. I think it is very well-written and creative but it just did not grab a hold of me. Maybe you focused a bit too much on imagery and too little on the purpose so the purpose was lost until the final line. But I absolutely love the structure you put into this for the verses, I thought it was pretty neat.

Thanks for the crit by the way on Butterfly.
he finds that walking in midtown can be just as aerobic as it is frustrating when traveling solo. large circumaural headphones can function as blinders, narrowing not just his field of vision but in fact the whole scope of his attention, allowing in only what is necessary in order to navigate yes automotive but mostly also human traffic in the most efficient and expedient manner while completely ignoring pretty much everything else. he ponders whether this an innately moral choice (ie. does this selective narrowing of attention/willful isolation say something about him as a person or what?), and decides to come down neutrally on this particular issue, for the moment.

he hates eating alone more than almost anything else in his life, and supposes that this has just as much to do with the programming of his upbringing as it does the fact that it highlights the solitary nature of his current lifestyle, which just because he has come to terms with it doesn’t mean he has to be proud of it, or even be particularly happy about its status as fact, and so basically tries to avoid thinking about it, much less exhibiting it in his choices and actions. how he allowed himself to return to the same diner again, with the same large novel again, and order the same dish again, is a mystery even to him, as he considers this to be an eating pattern on the order of “crazy cat lady” in terms of loneliness. in considering this, the term “creature of habit” surfaces, giving him chills and filling him with a particular dread.
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