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You got in my car and
we drove to the ocean
and you noticed
the moon.
You laughed at my stories
and we went to
your apartment.
You touched me
and I watched the plant
in a pot painted
with starved letters
spelling, begging
"grow."
I fell out of your door
and thought about
the things you said.
I swear I do these things
on purpose.
You told me it was lonely here.
I passed a girl on the way out;
she had a scarf
and she was pretty
but she hid her eyes
and I don't blame her
one bit
and yes,
it is lonely here.
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I remember this song.
Intrusive as I slept,
and when I woke up...
there was September,
with her mystery and promises
bobbing wildly in cool air.
My back ached.
My mouth, dry.
You were asleep
and I smiled at the thought
and I barely knew you
and you didn't know my secret.
I had school in the morning,
but this time I won't.
I miss the October tones of your voice,
and I wonder if you miss
the (March) of my irrationality.
I won't have school in the morning.
You left, (you left)...
August, I am unwell.
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I haven't written anything in the longest time.
There was a time when words would
delicately shudder from the tip of my pen.
But now the spasms are few and far between.
We threw our pennies into neon wishing wells;
they lined the bottom like shell-speckled toes.
A year later, the pennies are bloated.
Not a drop of copper-laced water remains.
Now imagine my words, caught between layers of coin and filth.
They're suffocating, but maybe when I fish out those greedy wishes, they will emerge- dripping with wonder and expelling all fear.
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867.48
I suppose numbers have always haunted me, however inconspicuously.
Yet none have sliced so deeply.
So very,
very...
peculiar.
I have been wondering what it would be like to be blind.
Could it be a blessing?
To have an excuse to touch, to feel.
Will I ever know?
Not I, said the...
I will always be here, crowing softly where the sky barely grazes the trees.
You are beautiful, you know.
Smiles echo sadness lingering on a breathless sigh.
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The days are getting longer.
What am I to do with all this foolish pride?
The sun collapses on my anger.
Oh, but he sang to me.
You are unlike
simile,
falling,
metaphor.
You just are.
And I marvel.
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