#161

it is unspeakable that i should go on with my life while hers is crashing down all around her. this morning's "to-do" list included preparing ground turkey for taco night, folding laundry, writing a letter to my grandmother. has it been a week, two weeks, more, since she has had the heart to touch pen to paper? to-do lists notwithstanding.

my funniest cousin called me yesterday, recounting his day and i laughed, i laughed till my eyes were wet and there was a certain pain in that, knowing that all of her laughter recently is only laughter of relief and not of joy.

i feel the burden to act melancholy, because i feel melancholy along with her, i do ache for her. what am i to say? my laughter makes me feel calloused; i only just heard the latest news. every phone call home reminds me of how much i hold in my hands every day.

i dread seeing her destroyed.

#160

I found you and I today, resting happily in the 5th chapter of my favorite book, on a page with all the prettiest words held in faded flourescent yellow.
I haven't highlighted a moment of my life since you've been gone.

#159

everything looks beautiful if you don't look to deeply.
clean cut and bright, he talks about God in certain circles and lays his alleged faith down on Friday night without remorse. she leaves public announcements of love for him, but sheds her skin every Saturday.
choking on cynicsm, i smile, the light in my eyes reflecting a wrathful fire inside.
i'm staring hard into the solar eclipse hoping it will tell me what happened to my heart.

fiftysix

You fell asleep with your feet out the window at sixty-seven miles per hour. You mumbled something about a kitten eating tortilla chips. Tom Waits played on the radio in between the gentle hissing.

I've never told you that you talk in your sleep. I think I'll keep that between me and your subconscious.

#158

every monday through friday now for months he rode the morning train. she was always in the subway before him- had arrived early enough to procure a bench and she always sat in the same coat with the same familiar white wires running from her pocket to her ears and he wondered what they told her every day.
he thought of this as he walked to the subway, earlier than usual, earlier than ever before, determined to greet her at the bottom of the stairs. glancing around the room, then at his watch, he settled down near the stairs, waiting. as he sat, his eyelids grew heavy.
startled by the clack of high heels, his head snapped up. there she was! right in front of him!
without a chance to speak or even catch her eye, a dollar dropped from her hand into his lap. she walked on.
no, he hadn't planned on what to say to her. the need for "i'm not a bum" hadn't crossed his mind.

fiftyfive

Her lips whispered blackmail, her throat breathed empty promises. It's ten to midnight and after that I have nothing left. The future is gone and been replaced by something new, but nothing as holy as tomorrow. She keeps the rhythm of the seconds with the toes of her boots and the snap of her finger and the click of her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "A strange fascination, you have," she says, with the condescension only reserved for me, "with that which is here and then gone, never to return."

fiftyfour

He coughed up smoke and cinders and all of his dreams. The tears in his eyes, though soon gone, told his story to himself. Boys don't cry. Ever. A contaminated life in contrast, a black a white a central grey making shadow puppets on the wall. The story the tell is grand. And the paint on the glass is peeling away in the shape of fingernails and months of carelessness. And one day, he knows, this all has meaning outside of itself.