( three years in the making. )

Mornings I still
reach for you before
opening my eyes.

This weight on the other side of the bed
is only books, not you. What
I said I loved more than you.
True.

Thought these mornings
I wish books loved back.

"Bay Poem from Berkely", from Loose Women by Sandra Cisneros.

Self-pity

I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.

It's coming in only a few days. This year sucked.

(looking at a light purple shirt)
"But this color? It's kind of like...vomit..bleh"
Stacey, "Vomit is usually the color of bile."
Clinton, "Actually! Once I drank grape juice and milk and vomited a color like that. But that's such a rare vomit!"

I don't belong here anymore. I'm done.

It feels like 7th grade again. I can't breathe.

I think I always write about it. That feeling I get when I finish a book. It's euphoric and I feel...at peace, again. It's sad to think it does not come often and that I always look for something else to take its place.

Giving Up Smoking

There's not a Shakespeare sonnet
Or a Beethoven quartet
That's easier to like than you
Or harder to forget.

You think that sounds extravagant?
I haven't finished yet -
I like you more than I would like
To have a cigarette.

- Wendy Cope

Hearing Ted Hughes at Plunkenworth's ( Read more... )