the days of the week
have lost their shapes
they are now septuplets
difficult to keep apart
melting into each other

an endless loop

mornings
     afternoons
                  nights
mornings
     afternoons
                   nights …

difficult to track time
clocks run in circles
history morphs to perpetual now

only the weather changes
nature remains unimpressed
      by our problems

On the edge of autumn,
I see the sky and trees all
ablaze with color.
I can still smell the
smoldering fires of fierce youth,
when the landscape of my
heart was wild;
a wilderness that wouldn't
be tamed.
But I'm afraid that
old age has quenched my
thirst for adventure.
Even my poems have lost their teeth.
Gone are my scabbed up knees and
swords made out of sticks.
No beautiful maidens to rescue;
Just constipation to overcome;
as I listen to the
ticking of the clock.

do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.

I fell in love with a dream,
and then I woke up.
It felt like a gut punch.
I wanted so badly for
the dream to be real,
but it wasn't.

The antonym for
dream is
reality.
And the reality
was
that she could
never love me
like I loved her.