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.

Work

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.

Monochrome

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

Good poetry

Not this shit

You already did

You see I hate her?

Okay

But most of all

And this is the important thing

Stay

Q & A

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.
Why?

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

Borrowed

I look at you and pray

For mercy