someone cut the shoes hanging from our backyard wires, and sometimes
brussel sprouts taste like fish - hey,
beer with dinner isn’t as good as you thought it would be
and i’m afraid of growing bellies the way
you’re afraid of worms in brussel sprouts:
was that so hard?
my hair is everywhere,
and if i could be as quietly intelligent as her, i would be.
i think my purple toes make sense,
if you count the mobiles in my neighbor’s window
and your sad way of saying goodbye;
i want to count the stars, brother,
although the city (yours) is too much.
i don’t think i can finish my beer (1.50 left) -
want it? i don’t care how many times
your girlfriend told you to shave your legs,
and if you don’t drink my beer i don’t think i can anymore.
why do you leave the light on Even after
they clipped the shoes from the backyard wires?
why are you a stranger in our house?
lazy is cheesesteaks to me, meeting friends but being confused
by one of them. well i know you’re awkward too,
me and you and me and you,
closer than last month but still far from together
waiting for my cold sore to go away -> oh they’re home!
finding clothes and talking coke (not us) i remember you still love me;
how i won’t tell you i’m alone.
here i think two drinks are past
my line. tomorrow (macbeth, etc.),
i want to pass class and make art simultaneously,
but comcast bills, running shoes and hungry stomachs get in the way.
i imagine brooklyn with you while i’m alone,
and rooms and kitchens and coming home
and occasionally interrupting each other for kisses
but also you might flush old potted soil down the drain
(and i might pull your hair) BUT
the Most Excruciating bit is that there’s no way to tell,
because comcast bills, running shoes and hungry stomachs get in the way.
half tipsy down the drain
i think fights should be picked but
with bare hands, no beer
because then monsters win, not us
yea the dips in the seats on the train hold water when it’s raining;
i sometimes put my umbrella there but mostly
sit on them without remembering.
got 20 cents more for the subway back?
people who smoke on the train wish a lot of things,
and perfect isn’t perfect so
So dependent on feelings i’m finding you tucked away
in my own little corner of the room.
words are harder when you don’t have time for them.
a little self-centered, i don’t understand “loving yourself,”
but something in me says go -
something in my lower back Or
in my shoulders Or in my brain asks
Do You Pray For Me? can you pray for me,
and where do we find something we both believe in?
asked you to read my testimony, my manifesto,
listen to my jumbled sermon feelings but mostly
be a little nicer - what to keep to myself nd
what to say are: am i doin it right?
love, love love
love love love love.
maybe my change is from you,
or maybe i’m all talk, dancing terribly with dangerous possibilities of how
fast i’d cry, and
how much time i’ll have for words.
i don’t understand either of us, like bathroom mirrors on both walls
i bounce back and forth (and back and back and back), not knowing which one is you and which one is
Hungry Angry Lonely Tired - have i stopped you?
running makes me taller and contacts fog up my eyes, somehow
a call to you is like any summer, perfect then unbearable (you say)
alone? so tired
when books become moss,
i want to wipe my feet on my bed
first friday in my bed feels like hours away;
wanting to come home is as hushed
as my plans for breakfast; i make them with the cat
and together we have one-sided conversations
about couches and where to lie on my lap (can we do the same?)
we don’t wait for each other,
just trust one will catch up
and we do. i want easter
to be with you, but i don’t want to push
old lights to the front of your mind;
i’ll meet you on monday.