Tuesday, August 18


and now that i know, there's no one i relate to
and no one seems real anymore because they could never understand
without the story
and i'm laying in bed feeling more alone than i've ever felt
sort of like it's time to die

i felt ok today
felt like nothing mattered
felt blank
then i replayed
it all
and felt like a suffocating fish

everyone i could have been interested in, everyone i love the most
loves you more

Wednesday, August 12

grief for temorary memory

i laid in bed for several hours this morning
i would have stayed if i had been tormented by hunger
i even tried imagining a bowl of chicken noodle soup next to my pillow.

last night it could hear the rain outside my window
i was overcome with grief because i want to keep my
memory of the sound of rain for all of eternity
but i reminded myself "one final day all you have shall cease to be yours"
and it all seemed silly and then suddenly physically
incomprehensible and my body became rigid

i dreamt you played a clear trumpet
in large, dark concrete rooms with a band uniform
is it even possible to make a clear trumpet? i think not.

Friday, August 7

a waitress gives us a look as we throw punches at each other at Anthony's; (a lot of endings in a run on poem)

this week i spilled $40 tequila on my carpet
and watched you rip up my old papers as you told me it was therapeutic.
stolen wine turns into a single, accidental kiss
that feels almost too comfortable.
in retrospect it feels like a final ending:
sad, kind,
and real.

my mother showed me her legs with skin that lacked elasticity more than ever
"getting old" she told me.
after frowning at her, she says "we just have to learn to accept it"
but she doesn't realize that it's not the aesthetic of sagging legs that makes me sad;
it is having our own skin remind us
that we are dying.

last night you wouldn't tell me why you drank a bottle of wine
along with painkillers;
instead you blew smoke in my face, slowly
while I stared at the full moon over lake whatcom
trying to understand displaced affection.

today my father bought me a large glass jar to put flour in
and entrusted me his ex wife's number
he told me to call her if "anything ever happened to him"
I frown again.
I run into you on the bus home
and after, I collapse on the grass
hugging an empty jar
and watching the wind
blow dandelions at eye level
happy for once
simply because I know you

(maybe that is finally enough)