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morning glory Nov 2016
the fragility which you encompass is much too rough for my black and blue hands to grasp.
morning glory Oct 2016
i try to treat you as kindly as i can. try to fill up the spots inside you where others should have left their love but forgot that they had any, and who they could've given it to. i try to treat you as wisely as i can, so you won't grow up wondering what love is, and if it's real or not. so that you aren't sitting alone at a bus stop at 2am trying to come home from work to an empty apartment. i try to treat you as gently as i can, so that when you feel my fingertips against your skin, you can forget his. i try to erase the bad and fill you up with so much love and care that the past won't matter anymore. i try, but it's not good enough. i'm sorry. i'll try harder.
her
  Oct 2016 morning glory
Jacob Singer
And here in this windless hole, I sit and wonder where I had left that which mattered most to me under the starlit fields of Montreal. I crave it and yet wish to God that I had never been the man who held you close to me. Everything I had in my arms in the parking lot outside of that hotel dash turned dash residence. A messy room and a crowded cafeteria. A hotel dash turned dash residence dash turning dash memory. And here in this wonderless *******, in this airtight cabin of past fantasy’s design, the rent keeps piling up and oh the dishes are due. Half-finished paperback classics flapjacked on top of each other in this white shirt no sweat world with the sleeves rolled up. This pill form city with all the charm and magic of an after dinner mint. Take a walk with me, let me tell you about this dream I had.
It had wine
and white sheets and tables.
Paintings that I knew
but did not recognise,
gasping under the grip
of yellowing wallpaper with pink flowers.
It was hell,
hell I tell you.
waking up with fever thinking I was portuguese and that there were three of me
Remembering when you sat me down,
and told me who I was in all of
two paragraphs- underline this underline that.
Black and red LEDs in full contrast of the room turning real again.
All I remember is you.
  Oct 2016 morning glory
Eunji Jang
I feel a winter morning breeze,                                                       
se­nding the smell of percolating coffee and the buttery toast 
from the street vendors.

The cold wind hit my face

One.

Two..

Three…

I can no longer see,

I can no longer smell,

I can no longer hear,

But I feel tears in my eyes,

Then I fasten my steps,

Then I stop.

I stop in the middle of the street,
to look at this car that had a lonely look to it.

Are you lonely,
standing still alone at the empty parking lot
on a brutally cold day

Are you lonely
waiting for your man,
taking you to the road,

And you,
On a excursion to the world.


Why are you still here standing still,
like I am still standing still here,
far from my home,
alone,
living in this lonely, lonely world,
where everything is crammed by the influx of people
from all over the world,
hit, squeeze and hurt someone to survive,
in this congested island.

Why are you here standing still
And why am I here standing still

Yet,
gusty wind hits and hits and hits
hard, hardER and HARDER,
                                                         ­      
But I no more feel the cold,
I no more feel my body paralyzed,
and I,
no more,
I no more feel my eyes pouring the water out.

But I feel my heart lurching.
And my heart aches,                                                           ­           
whole day,
till the sun finally goes down.
  Sep 2015 morning glory
berry
right now there are eleven empty containers of alcohol in my bedroom,
but it's fine, i'm fine.
i've been telling myself for more than a year
that i wasn't going to write anymore sad ****** poems about you,
but here we are.
most days i'm sure i don't miss you,
but then i listen to the wrong song,
and before i know it -
i'm screaming along to band of horses in the dark,
stalking your twitter favorites,
and somehow,
i've managed to get snot on my forehead.
yeah, nostalgia is an *******
but not all the memories sting.
there was that one time we went to the movies
and i slipped on some ice and fell flat on my ***.
i just sat there while you took a picture.
but i'm glad we could laugh about it.
i'm glad we were comfortable.
in my head, we still are.
in my head, we're oversized-goodwill-sweater comfortable.
we aren't as comfortable in real life
but i'm glad we still laugh.
this is the part where i don't bring up the time you told me
my laughter could cure your sadness,
because i'm pretty sure i already put that in another poem,
and it makes me really ******* sad.
did i ever tell you i used to play guitar and piano?
i loved them, but i never tried very hard.
i wanted to be good without having to practice.
i wanted to be good without having to practice.
i wanna meet the girl you write about
so i can ask her how she manages not to love you back.
because i've tried everything & i am so tired.
i forgot this wasn't supposed to be a sad poem.
i'm not good at happy anyway,
i never have been.
but in your absence i've learned a lot about softness.
so if i ever find myself back in your passenger seat,
i won't correct you when you sing the wrong lyrics,
i won't ask why when you take the long way home.
i won't ask you why you don't have your seatbelt on,
i'll just say a silent prayer
and watch for signs that you might be about to swerve.
right now there are eleven empty containers of alcohol in my bedroom,
and i didn't find you at the bottom of a single one.

- m.f.
  Sep 2015 morning glory
berry
you are eighteen and you're in love
with a boy who hates his birthday.
you don't know it yet,
but the world gets so much bigger than the back of his car.
you think he needs you to be happy and so does he
but both of you are wrong.
it'll take you almost a year to stop crying.
and then you don't talk for another three
and when you finally do,
he thinks he still knows you,
but your heart is heavier than it was then.
and you **** him because you're lonely
but it isn't the same.
neither of you can fake love.
at least he still makes you laugh.
you'll pretend it's enough
because at least he's a body.
at least you're not by yourself.
at least you're alive
and you're good at *******.
because bodies are distractions
from the things we hide inside them.
you have him inside you
and he wants to gut you of your ugly, your sad.
he scrambles for an excuse not to stay the night
and you laugh.
you know what this is and how it goes
and you both love someone else.
you swear you won't **** him again
but you do anyway because you're still lonely
and you like the way his hands fit around your neck.
you **** him because it's good for your art
and you get bored of your own hands on your body
and you're fine with letting him feel useful.
and you think about when you were sixteen
and how *** was supposed to be special
and it makes you cry
because you're not who you wanted to be.
it makes you cry, because the world got so much bigger
after you left the backseat of his car.
the world is so big and you don't know
how it ended up on your shoulders.
you would have died for him.
you have been ready to die for every person you have ever loved.
you have dreams where he dies
and you can't save him.
you have dreams where people die
and you can't save them
and you're the one who tied your hands.
your mangled heart and all its bleeding.
nobody asked you to die.
what good is all the love in your chest
if you don't leave any for yourself?

- m.f.
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