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along emilys hill road
the trees are bare

she's skipping stones
across st martens creek

as she turns
smiling my name

her breath comes out
white clouds
and hangs in the air

the quiet
in her eyes

she sees something
in me
that I can't

and that s why
i love her so

emilys hill road

the trees are bare

she's skipping stones
st. martins creek

I believe that's the way
I remember her best
It was monday night
When he wrote me a letter
With all the words he could not say
He filled his bag, and left me sleeping
I woke up empty
He told me he was evil
He told me he was saving me
And that he was doomed to be alone
I drank some coffee to taste the bitterness
If only he had asked me
I would have said I'm evil too
I would have said we could be dark together
I would have told him light is overrated
And that his eyes were enough to guide our way
But he just left
And I went to work
The computer screen was so bright
It made me sick
messy poem, just for self expression
In Farmington the misfit suffers the jukebox and dances to an unknown song. He dances on the pool table. He wears black—black skull cap, black
duster, black shirt, black slacks, black boots. He's in Farmington and
the women here drink Bud Light. He dances slow. It's similar to a dance
you've seen before. You have that friend that climbs on couches after a few and half staggers, half sways. The women here watch him with unhappy eyes and hands stained blue from the textile mill. He seems to mouth the words although he clearly doesn't know the song. They, the women, dig their elbows into the bar. Pocked and graffiti'd, the bar soaks up spilled beer and ash and nail polish. Behind the bar a sign reads: Free Beer Tomorrow. And for some reason, you must admit, this sign's effect never dulls. The Misfit pantomimes a dance with a pool cue. His face is severe, serious. He's in Farmington dancing with a pool cue on a pool table to a song he doesn't know like a drunk friend of yours and the women are watching. Next, he does something amazing. He removes his cap. He's got shocks of bleached hair and burn scars run like rivulets between the patches. He tosses the cap toward the bar. One lucky woman catches it and summons herself to the pool table. You want them to have a bit of dialogue here, to say something oblique and innocent. Instead the lucky woman dances at the man's feet. He surrenders a smile and he's got small tracts of bleached hair and burn scars and he's in all black and he's dancing. The lucky woman, she's in a canary yellow patch dress. Her dance, although clumsy, still mesmerizes you. It's without ego, without shame. She is a child. She is the light in the room. She is, in this moment, the world entire. He pulls her onto the table. It's time to appoint the Misfit and the lucky woman names, you think. His name shall be Joshua. Her name shall be Anna. Palms together, her head resting on his chest, they sway. The smoke and the tracers of light meld and Joshua and Anna's outlines become muddied. Their bodies merge and they are both yellow and black and covered in burn scars and bleached hair and the women are still watching. As the song starts to fade, someone—maybe it's you—drops a few coins in the jukebox and it begins again.
I can't sleep
Everytime I remember your words
They snap and recoil
And hurt me awake
Next time when someone
Promises me forever
I'll just smile
Look them in the eyes and ask
How long is forever to you.
 Jun 2020 Tabbitha Erceg
i cannot
and will not
for loving him

i mean

you would never expect
the moon
to apologize
for being attracted
to the earth
but i can promise
i’ll never collide
with him at night

i’ll just keep orbiting
 Jun 2020 Tabbitha Erceg
It's hard to expect
people to treat you
Kindly and act
peacefully if
they themselves want it
so much but never
knew how
in the first place

It's hard to see at first
that Your role
is not
to receive from them
but to
if you choose-
'cause you can
Next time I 'll just say I feel disrespected and don't leave.
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