Caper's Poets

Those Poor Old Friends — Ryan Traster

“It’s funny how heartbreak is inevitable, in every situation, no matter what”, she said.

The truth is, is that it’s not funny at all.

There’s nothing ironic about it.

It isn’t part of some cosmic joke.

No one is watching over you laughing.

It’s sick and grotesque. The type of thing that destroys bright-eyed little boys, running in tall grass, ready to take on the world.  It drains their souls year after year until they become ravaged grey men.  Weathered and bitter at the things that slipped between their fingers.  They sit in the back of bars, with their remaining strands of grey hair slicked back over the tops of their tired heads.  Forty years in that bar every night, looking for purpose, drinking themselves into obesity.  Laughing with the others, you can see a chance glitter of their youth in those desperate smiles.  Poor old friends with their coffee stained teeth and their pockets lined with the cigarettes they smoked when they were young.  The kind that made them look cool at parties when they were 19.  Age is ugly beyond comprehension, the outward appearance of decay and the footsteps that close in on the eternal.  Youth is the fleeting dreams of “beauty forever”.  The idea that something sweet lives behind those cold iron doors which are always just beyond our reach.  Something that brings painful waves of nostalgia, eyes welled up and sinuses pulsating.

You are created to learn the ultimate of all injustices.  An injustice that everyone on some level, somewhere in the depths of the imagination, believes to be true.  A sick fascination of an entire species based solely on survival and convenience.  Those poor old friends who are brought into this world undesirable.  Deprived of their sole primordial instinct, unwanted even as a pleasure tool.

There is no honesty in love.


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