Melancholy that can only be brought on by watching French films and listening to Kind of Like Spitting

Note: This is (for the most part) fiction. I am actually very happy with my recent arrangement in Portland. Yet for some reason, I still come up with the most horribly emo poetry possible. I think I'll just chalk it up to the overcast weather lately (although I love overcast weather...never really did well under direct sunlight). Worse yet, I'm not even sure who I'm talking about in this.

Forgetting you
is about as easy
as drying my hands
with the towel I took
from the dryer too soon.

Bits of fuzz
still cling
on my moist hands,
speckling them
like the lint on my used futon,
but I can't recall
the last words you said
before I left.

All I can remember is this feeling.

Sometimes I think I moved
two time zones away
just to try making up
for the first two hours I spent with you.
Even if I can't get back all of the time wasted
on you, I can at least try to cancel out the first two
that led to so much trouble in the first place.

Maybe I'm just kidding myself
thinking that moving thousands of miles away
will help me grow up a few years,
that magically, a few gray hairs will sprout,
I'll grow a bit taller, "find a real job"
or worse yet, "find a real boyfriend."

My friends still talk about you
like you're just a blow-up doll,
a silicone vibrator I randomly
ordered online.

Well, I'm just not ready
to grow up yet.

I am, however,
ready to walk
into an actual sex shop,
look the clerk in the eye
and ask for suggestions.

I figure this is at least a first step
towards meaningful human interaction.