Metaphysical Hit Points (or, 90 days of next to nothing)

If I weren't so tired right now I'd tell you (telephathically) that I've read Shakespeare, too, and know that even the sweetest, most natural, cruelty-free honey gets sickening when you've eaten too much of it; and i'm sick of you already, honey, and

i don't miss you in this
distant
rainy
city
where my subway transfer says:
Union, 11:11 PM

so maybe i've eaten too much or
not enough
walked too far today and
my bones hurt
so much that i know yours
must hurt too but
i don't care that's
why i'm here
feeling the soreness slowly slide from my feet as
i sit here drinking coffee
alone-- but i don't care, really,
or mind at all, i like it
better that way (seriously--more
time to think and greater scope for the imagination)

and the point of all this, anyway,
was to tell you that i'm sick of you, honey,
no longer care much what you think, and
i don't miss you a bit--

to let you know that i didn't
bother to sweeten my coffee,
sugar,
because i'm
already sweet enough.