My Working List of Things I Will Never Tell You

When I said it was you that made it good, I was lying, it
was me. I told you that I never lied to you and
I did but it is still true that you are the one person I
have lied to the least. 


I mourn like you are
dead sometimes, I even
lied to a complete stranger the other day
and said you had died in a car crash, just
to have something to say about you other
than what I always say.

I hated that you felt so comfortable
sometimes, you looked like an
orangutan in sleeveless shirts.

I screamed at myself in the
supermarket for writing poems about you
still, reminding myself that everything
reminded me of you.

When we got really bad I would
go over to Cory's and ignore your
texts for hours until I was sure you were
asleep.

I have a growing queue of things that would make you laugh.
I don't know where to put them.

I'm terrified of settling with the dust and ending up hating everything.

So I don't settle down anywhere, doing anything, with anyone and

I love everything, absolutely everything. 

tender and respectful art?

lotus flower poems.

the folds in my shirt appearing and dis-
appearing as my hips make the rounds, I
love the shape I take on when
hands caress my curves, they came
out of nowhere, it seems I was a length
of wood, a slab of material with no
definition until
the subtle crook in my arm was noticed,
the length of my neck and the fold of my thighs
as I lay on my side, too.

Yesterday, a friend of mine experienced an omen if there ever was one.

He was sitting on our front porch (as he is the 'du' to my 'plex') reading an e-book on his brand new phone. 

Not unfamiliar with the readers of today's exodus from the real world myself, when he says things melt away, and the pages, or in this case e-pages, build walls between him and his immediate surroundings, I know to what extent he's referring to. Breaking from what could only be screen-induced eye strain, he looked up from the the downloaded version of 'Romeo and Juliet' and was shocked to find that a bird had ambled up to him, and from the looks of it was, for lack of a better phrase, half-dead. 

The bird couldn't move his legs, but his head and wings were jerking about. Not knowing what to do, wanting to help, my friend scooped the bird into cupped hands and held it until it died. He said that at a few different points it seemed as if it would be okay, that it would just stand up and fly away. But then it's eyes would close and he said he almost felt the wind move from the bird into the air and all too quickly the universe had snatched it back. He then placed it under a bush outside his home, hoping nature would dispose of the bird in a more dignified fashion than we humans do with our boxes and our chemicals. 

This story made me think about what last wishes I would have if I were injured and knew I were to die within the hour. As undoubtedly was the bird's case, it is likely I would try to find help and if help could not be provided, just a pair of hands to hold me as I faded. Just another living thing to witness my departure and to ease the inevitable loneliness in death. 

condescension and the deepening folds of dark. 

moods are made up of everything we 

want and everything we have already. 

wanting and waning/having and indifference. 

how indulgent and disgusting I find myself sometimes. 

how delightfully oblivious. 

how annoyingly warm.