when I was eighteen and didn't really exist, or maybe I just asked too many questions

I see flare guns ignite when they're past being more than warning signals. I don't allow being caught by their lure, it's only the same impermanence seen in the stars: they are just old light.I see the same decomposing thoughts flashed everyday. Concave lines crease into our face, and ivory souvenirs of good breeding or simple evolution, shine. Sometimes the head will fall back at the same moment when hair seems to land perfectly over the face, when we compose notes with no paper for them to imprint themselves onto...as if by purpose.
Because laughter
is not
to be recorded.
Its altruistic intent is in something which is not stability,something that can only be real in a short glimpse, and like everything, it too will die. And if giggle-fits and chuckles are the songs we make when brainwaves stumble across un-written thoughts for the first time; spat out to accompany old memories also destined to expire, how do I write their epitaph? How do you write for something that has no future, was never supposed to, and never really warned much of anything anyway? And if I cannot write how can I say goodbye,
how can I stop caring for something which I cannot write for?
And is this the first time the awkwardness of my shifting eyes and hands have searched out into this new melody, and what is the promise that resides in it? I had an epiphany when you laughed yesterday,
that I am something
that is
beyond
repair.