Ahhh how nice.
I want to know what happened.
I count your rings.
You can’t hide much,
Broken like this.
Who remembered where they heard it? They all just knew, and always knew. No one remembered.
Barbara did. Barbara who was small, shy, quiet, unless.
They were at her kitchen table, these friends who knew her forty years. More. They were at the table with husbands and children, laughing at a joke which was old and still funny, and Barbara was howling and feeling like home. And the person who told her was here, sitting with her.
Sitting across the table, where she should be. Beloved, but also. There with that hair, those lashes, those lips, source of so much love and pain. Lips which were always busy, loud, and a certain shade of coral: pastel, shimmering, false. Lips which told Barbara a story, then said they forgot.
How could any of them admit they were waiting? Only a fool would: wait, or admit it.
Apparently. My boss says so, anyway.
It’s the first job I’ve had since being my neighborhood’s (frankly, best) ghost. Which I still do on weekends, so. Stay off my turf.
Not in these pictures:
The sound of icy rain clicking on the unfallen leaves
The slipperiness of the paths
The perfect loneliness of the woods on such a stormy day
How much I needed it
You keep coming around
Fucking with my stages of grief
Everything about you shatters me
How could you
You didn’t mean to
I’m an idiot
I hope you find someone to write you
Not this shit
You already did
You see I hate her?
But most of all
And this is the important thing
Is this about you/me/him/who?
You’re asking the wrong question.
What is it about?
Ask yourself. You can answer that one. If you can’t, you almost certainly will be able to sometime in the future.
Exactly. I also would like to know.
I look at you
Delicately chemically robbed from the earth
Again and again or as we thieves would say
I look at you and pray