If I write about you, I have either loved you as in past tense, love you as in present tense, hate you currently, wish you didn’t exist, am so glad you do, miss you every day of my life, am trying not to, or at some point, you were absolutely everything to me.
There are essentially only two drugs that Western civilization tolerates: Caffeine from Monday to Friday to energize you enough to make you a productive member of society, and alcohol from Friday to Monday to keep you too stupid to figure out the prison that you are living in.
Suddenly, it is December again.
My thick comforter has been pulled and tugged
more often than my heartstrings, more often than my hair in bed.
Lately, I’ve been sleeping alone.
This poem wasn’t supposed to be about you
and yet, things can’t be helped. Everything…
I looked at all the trees and didn’t know what to do.
A box made out of leaves.
What else was in the woods?A heart, closing. Nevertheless.
Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else.
I kept my mind on the moon. Cold moon, long nights moon.
From the landscape: a sense of scale.
From the dead: a sense of scale.
I turned my back on the story. A sense of superiority.
Everything casts a shadow.
Your body told me in a dream it’s never been afraid of anything.