Thinking of You

I'm always thinking about you, little bloggy-poo. I hastily scrabble scribbles onto napkins and unwanted receipts.
No one has questioned it.
I say I'm writing a novel, or memoirs. But really I'm making fun of my coworkers or writing in code.
During the walk I forget the day, and remember just how futile my movements are.
I consider collapsing there, among the graves.
I'm only stopped because I know it won't end.
I'll still have to get up eventually. I won't just lay down and die.
And that would expend too much energy. So I walk. Home.
Shower or sleep.
Eventually I notice, these greasy notes and frantic phrases.

I can never make sense of them.
The trash can becomes their home.