I tell her I feel like I have not slept in days. Days blend into days. Priorities are lost in afternoon trips, crosstown traffic. I sat in my old place and reminisced about days I don't remember. This is all feels familiar. I tell her I feel like I can't remember which day was which, I tell her I feel . . "like a marshmallow." Yes. Just like ( Read more... )

Last night I dreamed I was walking around with my hand over a bandage that covered a bullet hole in my chest.
Every day I wake up and wait for something to happen.

I would write you a letter, but it would only be about the weather . . . "it feels like England today . . . your hands must be cold ( Read more... )

I walk carefully, deliberately. I may just start to shake. On my bed, I write sonnets about truth on an envelope. I will mail it in two-and-a-half weeks if the spirit still moves me. If the truth is still shaking my fingers ( Read more... )

I always thought I'd marry a poet. Rephrase. I always thought I'd be a poet. Or a musician with a bit of soul so small you'd have to tip-toe to hear it. Maybe this will be my outlet for a while ( Read more... )

A lot/not much changes in four years ( Read more... )

Throw it in a box, ship it to yourself, see how long it takes. Deliver it yourself, three houses from where they met, unload it, set it up in the fanciest way. See what they say. Cover the walls with pictures, held up with nails that pierce the fresh coat of off-white paint. See to it that they notice. "Borrow" your space for cheap and ( Read more... )

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I am sitting on a boulevard, bikes strewn around me. It hardly matters who hears these conversations anymore. I haven't stood in this path since the time we strolled up and down it, sharing a joint and then returning to your house to play donkey kong and laugh about high school. That's the only time I have ever done any of that, ever. She tells ( Read more... )

Everything pulled from drawers, top closet shelves, long forgotten boxes, newly purchased, is wrinkled, dusty, molding in the sunlight. Sometimes I live in 100 years of solitude, where nothing so rigorously determined / determinedly rigorous can save these things from being devoured by dust. The shelves are turning to sand, the books to clay, and ( Read more... )