THE BEST WEEK

find the spaces and stillness between each breath. take note of the left temple and the vein that runs across it. tapered and thin fingers. the range of voices and smells of laundry. take the time to fill days with someone because is timing ever good?

DAY OLD HAIR

i want to be able to say it in the obvious glow of late morning, still in bed, whose turn is it to make the coffee? how long can we be content just here finding stillness and safety in melting together? tell me a fairy tale.
as opposed to a drunken and cowardly plead in passing after last call, sloppily sucking on cigarettes, slurring and balancing against the doorframe.

i want to be able to say i love you, so, hard.
as opposed to i love you's sounding more like apologies.

share your
day old hair, night driving, and dreaming with me. metal-tasting tea, sour grapes, and park swings.

GOODBYE FROM THE PART THAT'S STAYING BEHIND

is there a more catastrophic idea than 'you, were, perfect.' i mean that. i mean that in a sense of a burning building before and after. wrecked car, wrecked bodies. lands and coastlines and people devastated by natural disaster. as humans, decaying, as organs become obsolete and useless one by one. flooded homes and lifelong belongings carried off. burned dinner, burned coffee. glasses spilled over once shining floors. moments before the delivery of a fatal diagnosis. moments before the delivery of an unhealthy child. the drive home, noticing that the tree has been cut down and having to wonder 'how long has it been gone this way?'

you, were, perfect.

it is so devastating when a human you know so well becomes unrecognizable by pure accident
you've
always been my you

'to be loved or to be free
die young in the dark, that's poetry.'