Borderline Sci-Fi, or Mature Fantasy, please?

New bliss and string cheese. Christmas cards tacked on the wall. I've given up waiting for my father's calls. We've compromised and understood: as time passes and you throw those fishing lines of yours to reel me in, but never pull me ashore - I will dutifully bite down on every piece of kisses and snarl of poeta. Even if it's unintended, pitiful, and an attack on my worthiness to your self-affirmation as a force of Something, Someone in my life and in extension, someone else's. Some one else's one day. Boxes of checks that I can't use, and a woman smiling at me from a painted picture used for vinyl record cover art; oh, how Newsom understands the need to be outside of this realm of smoke and cold steel and scratchy baby blue throws. Painting, scavenging, same thing, I saw you in the land of little man's treasure, and there laid mine, but I hadn't the courage to claim my tidings. This is the spirit that runs on the waters beside the banks of the shores where you drive, and she sprints as fast as you are willing to fly. Sometimes I think that spirits will lose its fire as it tires and lingers too long on the water, but I need to understand that dampening and dying are two separate entities; and as I sit here by the fire, slipping on the machine of natural heart's yearning, I will believe in eternity and all of its best aids - the remedy of sleep, the curing of time, and the wear-down of unwanted memory.