i can’t handle how many
you don’t write

i’m seeing the world as it is
right now,
skyscrapers,  clouds,
“no trespassing” signs,
feral childhood wounds,
a city gone mad with rejection. I’m seeing it
in rhythm and blues
and furiously trying to capture moments
in time in pulsing cadence,
sky a volcano at sunset to teach me a lesson
in aesthetics
(wait for it)
verbosely romanticizing “that one time we never
talked about 
anything,” or
some effort in short horror where I get to
eat your fucking heart out,
a delicate five-seven-five when I’m feeling
appropriately warm,
uncharacteristically concise.

i never write about flowers but
i’m seeing inflorescence in
my unpolished toes on the carpet,
an unwashed bowl of almond butter
next to my tea,
empty half of the pillow,
my patient sponsor and the tail end of my frantic texts,
a water filled horizon that distorts my perception
of what leverage really means,
(blurry like your intentions),
a cat on my lap in an effort to remind me
about patience
(check the sky around five)

and my mailbox is empty,
i’m waiting for someone to drop me a line in my chest,
you are knee deep in a bagel and coffee and
some tepid reception,
some handsome gaze her way.
you are ignoring that tug in your gut that says
“someone was right” and you’re smiling,
you’re pausing,
you’re chewing a girl’s last words like

you’re seeing someone new for breakfast.


“the present”


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