sadness swells up like an icy fug

on the frost-prickled windshield glass,

crackles and burns out.

my room's raspberry red, and he's dreaming of

the August sea, sitting in a tiny turquoise house

with white shutters, briny shingles

and humidity that smothers, heat that

kisses the concrete, smoking softly.

i don't like coffee or capital letters

but i'm always cold.

november reminds me of the week i couldn't eat,

the invitations i turned down, the blood on the

kitchen counter, the pie i nearly ruined, the friendship i did.

my brain plays me a slideshow of ghosted memory:

a drawer full of knives, my bare feet pink on hot asphalt,

a note in wet blue ink, the man on the brown couch with

red cheeks and glasses shiny and round like silver dimes.

regrets pile up until i'm standing ankle deep in debris,

wading through a paper lake of memos and messages and mixtapes

footsteps get heavy, water-logged and drugged

walking becomes a chore.

yesterday i wrote him a letter, one torn page

my words tall and thin, crushed together under

the weight of all those blue lines and worthless text.

"i worry that i never say anything of consequence." i said,

thinking that there's a chance that i never do anything of consequence

either.