I think i should
take this warmth in my heart
and roll it into a ball,
keep it tucked away in the pocket of my bathrobe
so when i pace the house late at night alone
ice clinking in my glass
I can hold it,
rub it like a worry stone
like a souvenir
made out of hearts
and it wont get lost or dirty

 We are of a certain generation.

Absent fathers, and manic mothers

Cradled our tiny hearts

During our earliest breaths

but by our 8th, our 3rd, our 5th birthdays

one or both gone 

scattered by wind
or war
torn apart before our eyes
leaving us, adults
tiny immature adults

there is no fault at work here
this is the way of our kind
there is no gaining on it
overcoming our wanderlust
or infidelity
we will never be calm
never taste happiness for more than a few moments
and this isn't
an atrocity
it is life
and we will
live through this like our parents before us
we will have children
we will not have children
we will make money
we will burn all of it
we will worry and be free
and all at the same time
in the same place
as the sun spins circles around us

embrace your missed chances
love them like an absentee father
like a manic mother
like big brown eyes heavy and sad
asking for your approval
and breathe the breaths
of generations before you
as important and insignificant
as you are.
And remember
doom and sadness and
philosophy and love and time and hate
and understanding and abandonment and
fidelity and laws 
and responsibility and shirking responsibilities
were all made up
by someone...one boring
day when they needed to fill some void
that by nature is unfillable

and then, smile the smile
of a human who sees
their own undoing.

and repeat.