73.3 MILES

I drive for 73.3 miles of stupidity. How could I think he'd want to live with me? Why do I set myself up for disaster, and feel so empty after? Have I become so accustomed to this dance -- That I fill my soul with dreams if only for a chance, To love and live and dream and be, With that green-eyed guy -- color of the sea. You could dive so deep and swim in that iris, But fate deemed I'll be alone, there'll never be a beside "us." To see one so alone -- this old. No pity is there. No convenient social mold In which to form the appropriate answer, Instead I'm seen as a societal cancer. Remove EXCISE I've been cut out Without a doubt.