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

i’m seeing the world as it is
right now,
gray: skyscrapers, clouds,
“no trespassing” signs,
concealed childhood wounds
sliced open to to leave
trails on the sidewalk,
a city gone mad with rejection;
the horns, the shattered glass on pavement,
the casualties
to prove it.

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 dirty 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 regretting and chewing
a girl’s last words like
you’re seeing someone new for breakfast,
and I’m seeing a future without

“while I was practicing presence”


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