twitching paws,
snoring.
the scent of arabica
still warm in a garage sale mug.
a gift, from my beloved—
hinted with a splash of milk.

the percale sheets are
slightly chilled against
my freshly-shaven calves.
yawning, my eyes water.

i’ll have to pee soon.
but i crack my journal
to write this instead.
a reminder that
these sensations exist
and for now,
i can be with them.

as if there’s anything new to say.

it’s always walking the dogs,
the residual guilt of
one more episode.
the foggy commute to
a stretch before
a Zoom binge.

it’s last night’s leftovers
in a container that
changed some influencer’s life.
what we made together—
link in bio.

isn’t the plate cold?
maybe a little more salt.
or are we both so tired
trying to figure it all out?

the mundane consumes me
but the rush of your handwriting
is like a boiling pot—
don’t touch it;
it will burn.

arrange yourself in a shape
across oceans and timelines.
it’s bigger now, and
somehow not there.

the veil is thinner
in The District,
walking the pavement
like a memory.

i smile at the barista
in a city of thousands—
the hum of a double take and
No One Does It Like You.

i left my lover for a hospital bed
3,000 miles away.
meanwhile, i long for the very thing
that made me sick:
i tried so hard.

i only write when something has to get out—
i don't even think about it anymore.

except for
that one playlist.

shadow bodies slick with sweat,
steamy red rooms and
numb-gummed lips.
dreams? or was it,
you still awake
on the checkered kitchen floor.
cool as the day i met you.
silent as the day i left.

i don't even think about it anymore.
except for

neon staircases and
Tecate tall cans.
side-mouthed cigarettes
stained Cute As A Button.
street lamps? or was it,
the dawning light
as we drifted off to sleep.
beaming, like your belly laugh.
sharp, like its echo
in my peripheral.

i don't even think about it anymore.
except for when i do,
and then it's all i think about.

can we skip to the part where
the growing is over,
the pain has subsided,
each bone is stretched
to its greatest capacity.

but is it that easy
for feelings to calcify.

so i wait, or
sometimes wallow,
impatient in the grey.
too far from who i am,
too close to
who i might be.

in my dreams i ask,
do you even miss me?
when i wake i wonder
is there anyone left to miss?

i’m afraid i lost the pinch pot you gave me—

not broken,
not stolen,
gone.

i long for
its crooked grooves
its hallowed depth
its smooshed shape
from hands.
the knock
on a dinner table,
sharing accoutrements
with the ones i love.

“it’ll turn up” he says.
but distraught isn’t a good enough word
for what it’s like to know
that might not be true.

still
i wonder
if we can pack up the pieces
and find each other again.
in the hallowed depths
in the crooked grooves
in the space between—
right where we left it.

lessons of the river:

how to remain still
and make progress. 

will it be easier when you're gone, 
i think.

i shouldn't.
i shouldn't.  

sometimes it seems
the only place we’ll agree
is six feet under.  

when you are standing
in the darkness
and you are scared.

remember.

the shadows are women
before you.

i'm reminded by you in the moments where space speaks for itself:
when the wind blows that wisp of hair into my mouth and
my clumsy smile catches it
over chapped lips. when
i feel what you’d say while
i'm doing something wrong
(but i'm not sure).
or your light hearted laugh when
i do something right
(and i know).