What do you think of this poem?

Last Try

I miss being your friend. Thoughts like this scatter me every once in a while when I can't refuse thinking.

Caught a few hours before awake and a morning drive. The trance music sleeps, its climax holds the peace.

Four hours from now I will enter noise. The objects of an institution will make me forget how beautiful the night can sound. But we can disregard that for now.

Because the minutes of relaxation are upon us. Don't waste seconds predicting your anxiety. These idle moments will be your tide in the black straits of restlessness. The persecution will echo.

Like imagination gripped us during discussions of my most personal works, I am reminded of the unconditional advice you used to amuse me with after I rejected personality and safe connections for the useless sake of upholding something that we all knew was never there. It feels like something was lost because your energy and life rewarded you with happiness and a legitimate chance to have partnership.

And so I'm a little blind, even though I will continue to roll and roll and roll and roll until the dice are caught for the last time, after my morning drive and sun clouds and visions of awake appear in a time we both can argue is unrestricted.

If this was an apology.

There are things entrusted far more sacred.

If this was a letter.

Art would melt away.

The pencil broke everytime the narrator tried to sketch this frame. So he typed, and perhaps the metal belly of the spellcheck corrupted what he attempted to illustrate. But lessons always being learned, even after you've been exploited and stepped over for the last time, the next one won't recluse.

Last try.