Damn, I still can’t remember her name, though I’ve tried to remember it.  Like her, fuzzy.
FUCK, I’m serious, I don’t want to feel like this, go through these emotions every time.  I can’t believe last night I drove by her house.  And now I’m searching the web, hoping to find a scrap, something to hold on to, since I wasn’t letting go of the memory any time soon.
FUCK, I’m serious, god almighty.  So many available women out there, so many I could meet, and maybe date, and maybe we could get to know each other…
Yeah right, I’m so fucked, and I don’t know how to get out.  I want her still, I want her so bad, I just want to see her, just want to smell her, or not even smell, just sense her presence.  God, Beatrice is so not an exaggeration.
FUCK, I wanted to write a song, a poem, something worthy of her, like she’d hear it and want me.  FUCK, I shouldn’t be waiting and wanting for others to want or need or love or fucking any of it.  Chirst, man, I’m so fucking pissed at myself.
I must keep trying, keep trying to find a song for her.
Outline form:
Still in mind
Drive by cliché
Squint, brow gets notted, look far away