Existentialist

A stale sunless room
fan blades swinging.
We smoke. I tell him
love means nothing
to an existentialist.

Therapy takes me back
to the rocket show,
father explaining,
my face a scarlet tide;
sheer as icicles, the
rockets cut the sky.

I put on my Ray-Bans
buy and sell futures
have a girlfriend
had a girlfriend
blue girl - our kind -
picked me a buttery
fistful of dandelion
heads, left a voicemail
she was quitting
here.

“Whisper what you want,” 
I remember her saying
as she lay by me.
I should have told her
I want to be Bad code
Fatal exception
My idea of myself is biological 
My idea of myself is personal 
My idea of myself is biological 
My idea of myself is personal 
My idea of myself is biological 
My idea of myself is personal 
My idea of myself is biological 
My idea of myself is personal 
My idea of myself is biological 
My idea of myself is personal 
...

@ianjmclachlan