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