edwards park.

napowrimo #28


when we crossed
the river i made a mistake

one hand in yours, plucking grass
from a lawn with the other,

stomping the slugs and
snails downwards, into the earth


you curl
fingers together
with yours in a lone
you lost the
other, or gave it


beneath our umbrella we damage
the soil, we dig with purpose

in the end
we ask for the rain, for
the way it becomes when
we’ve torn up the streets


my hair only looks good in the middle of the night, which is tremendously unfair and there’s coffee in the back of my throat all the time even when i’ve brushed my teeth and i don’t mind, it’s not about feeling clean, it never is, it’s about managing exhaustion and spitting the remainder of the day into the sink (most nights i don’t, too familiar to exhuming), it’s about rolling over and facing the wall because it’s blank and it almost never stares back, which is where i was the most comfortable in far too long and almost forget, it’s too many missed calls and the constant debate about changing my voicemail message and becoming something better than i used to be but the debate isn’t as constant as i like to think because i haven’t changed it, and if i did i don’t really think i’d like it, but i don’t like the way it is, so maybe it isn’t a debate at all i really wouldn’t know i’m not super good at arguing, even when it’s with myself and i don’t care, i wouldn’t want to be, i don’t mind losing every time because forgetting is as easy as much as giving in, not that i ever give in because i don’t, not in at least and when i think about my voicemail i think about the way he just forgot my name, how could he forget my name, how could he be so sure and in an instant of my absence lose it all, every touch bled into every drop of ink on every page and he forgot, and it isn’t like i care except i know somehow i should, and the good thing about march is rambling sentences and the reason it’s good is that i can spit out papers like toothpaste when i’m running on caffeine like this and happiness and dancing on the tips of toes against the backdrop of a paper lamp, two promises too many for tomorrow, let me sleep on it and call you back, once one time a long time ago i had his phone number memorized and never once failed pressing 9 to dial out, could feel like fate the charge of us exploding through the wires and just the other day, i guess more like a week i had to think but it’s a 5, it’s never been an 8 and now i’m not so sure, it’s always been a 5 and you forgot my name and it wouldn’t be important except when i look back i know you never really got it right since no one ever does, almost, i know it isn’t your forgetting that i’m mad at, i get forgetting i’m a fan, i’m not mad i’m just uncertain though a bit and i keep talking, the way i’d talk to you and never stop, always looking up and back, back and forth, and up, back then back when i did my hair and showered in the middle of the day, which was all right but was undone by too late twilights and the summer heat and now you’re gone (i’m always talking, you’re always listening, ash from my fingertips, my shirt) and i don’t even care, and not because of the whole name thing, although if you were to ask by chance by slender chance i’d tell you that was why.