Through my mother’s thinning hair,
I see her scalp,
and I realize that I don’t know her at all.


Over and over, like a broken record, with 3 straight glasses of *****,
This boy sat on the floor of the living room, and talked about his relationship,
“it’s a routine, it’s a pattern, you fall into it, and you just never leave.”
but my father walked out, and left me standing in a living room full of boxes,
containing his possessions.


And I held my ***** on my last 12 hour drive,
my last tree smeared, day dream.

Where the colors all come
together in different shades through each leaf.

You are
the


Dripping faucet

The crack in an ice cube…



The carpet imprint under a piece furniture
(wehaven’tmovedfor30years)

the strand of hair in cold, stale cup of coffee. . .


a rustling of papers

we slept here,
all of us.

in a white room
with a broken fire place
with writing on the wall



you are the eyes that never close and the lips

i’ve never felt.

i listen to your quick in takes of breath,
compared to my slow exhale,
my fingers smell like the cigarette I had,
a few hours ago.

i am frozen here,
while you shake and rattle.
crying the leaves are pasted to the ground,
the limbs of trees are still,
your tears are drenching my shoulder,
i am inside you now,
but feeling nothing.

I stare at
the water shining back at me from the road.


and your eyes are still closed on me,
‘i love you’ is all you tell me.


all I can think to say







Is “it’s been raining,
all day

the roads are wet”.

All roads lead to the hospital…
To the room of your own conception,


Where you were pulled into the world by
unknown hands.

You claim it is your artistic style that makes us.
That positions the words on this page,
You say mine is too broken



Up.


All roads meet in your bedroom,
With abandoned bottles and shoes, the smell of old coffee filters,


You claim you are at odds with your creator,
With your creation.

And I am the muse who later came to **** you.

I am the voice you sought for reason

But silenced like a sedative.


All roads split at the old school building with memories
And hung up black and white photos with no pattern or placement with the false claim of being an instillation.


You are forever in those photos, in my mind, finger printed by your existence.

I  was sleeping on the floor, where you consummated your first relationship, and I wondered how these moments all get intertwined.

Me, your first real love, laying on top of your first time, with someone you used for a warm body to fill the void
That you created
For yourself.
All roads end with an unclean floor.