for my eyes (but you can look too.)

lua's on repeat and i'm laughing at how predictable i am.

i feel like pulling on a sweater

and sitting with my crane train journal

on my bare bed at home.

i'd probably burn the only candle i use

plug in the seashell string of lights

and sigh

feeling heavy

staring at the ceiling

trying not to think

and feel

simultaneously.

i'm a caricature of myself.

finding the soft dip between

the flashing mirth of others

and everlasting forgiveness

with myself

is my salted cavity

of a flaw.

my epitaph will read: blank.

empty of all common sense

laden with emotional logic.

rough, raw, add some more alliterative twists

i've been reading a shit ton of plath

(not by choice but by serendipitous sweetness.)

every page makes me think more and more of you.

you're probably sitting on your damp deck

a yoga-pant decorated leg dangling over the side of a patio chair

smoking cigarettes that taste like answers

and thinking that you should add "paint nails" to your to-do.

i spent a whole summer

trying to replace memory with apathy

only to find you on page 147 of the bell jar.

mreh

i never want to spend a birthday

wondering where we would be.

i can tell you that there would

not be conventional gifts;

wrapping paper isn't even an option.

specially prepared cakes lack enthusiasm;

i like my sugar to sting with spontaneity.

we'd probably go about our normal day

and,

in-between walking to the fridge for a coke

and heading to bed,

you'd call over your translucent shoulder

a basic november 27th greeting from aunt marie.

recognize

that each day apart

is a day i yearn to get back.

dalittlela duh duh duh duh

make it better

some french film

call to arms

sharp like the irritants of astroturf,

they burn

like miniature lances

thrown by your

one

green

eye.

i slide down my sleeve to hide ripped knuckles.

there are a thousand poems about paper cuts

but your fax-machine mind

forces me to welcome tired metaphors.

reminder of why you should work hard

feeling like a cigarette

damp from the lips

of a mumbling lush.

weighed down with sugar

soaked in the stench

of a half-wasted day.

classy

there is no room for regret

when time consistently begs us

to move along.

to something better

i drink

i should be napping