old stupid text to dead love

nothing is well.  not speaking with you like an ocd kid dodging sidewalk cracks.  like a lost flavor looking for closed restaurants.  like the words of a favorite novel written into a dirty joke on a bathroom stall.  like dead flowers garnishing the wrong grave.>
somewhere in between the insecure permutations of a ghost, drifting through a cage of patterns and memories (calling it a home) and the defiant experiments of a mad composer, painting surprise improvisations where none would sound appropriate.  humming favorite songs on poisoned avenues.  sitting on a friend's stoop, knowing that there is no one in 100 miles who cares what Lost Highway is about.>
but it's essentially ok and smoothly consumed.  he promised himself long ago that the streets looked like this: drawn out, wavering and unsteady.  every step led to something lost, and whenever he held things he was practicing.  they were a rehearsal.>