I frequently attempt to capture home on a canvas
But despite all the good this does my soul
oils and turpentine do little for the city of Atlanta
If you were to ask me why I loved Atlanta.
You would know me as you would a brother
My first kiss
my best friends who no longer live there
that time when me and Jacob were so ******* over it that we spent 4 hours throwing rocks at the Chattahoochee hoping it would change something

And know nothing of I-285, Jimmy Carter, or Hartsfield-Jackson

And as I explain love.
With little interest in its subject
I feel that Orpheus would have empathized

Nowhere has felt so right as Atlanta
once did
I would give anything in the world
to have those experiences again
and I wouldn’t change a ******* thing
but I know now
Atlanta is but a husk of what it once was
the life has left it
merely meaningful memories remain

And I can only hope that I’ve learned from Orpheus’s folly
maybe this time I’ll not try to rob the grave


When Robert comes back
We’re gonna go visit Jacob
he left too
and pretend like its old times again
I’m terrified to see them
because I haven’t been cleaning the wounds
or taking my medicine
And I know.
we’re only passing through
to look back
and say goodbye

Last December I drove 13 hours to spend 2 days in Atlanta
with no intent to stay any longer
If you had asked,
I had to “fix some issues back home”
there was nothing wrong there.

Two days earlier I had signed my summer away
I didn’t tell anyone
New York had called.
Guilt overwhelmed me
I had betrayed my love

Nobody requested my return
and although they were happy to see me
they told me I shouldn’t have
-but it meant a lot to them-
that’s not why I went back
It was only for mental health

As I veil my own personal insecurities and suffering
behind a selfless and insignificant gesture
intending to bring nothing back with me
I feel that Orpheus would have done the same

When I hear Meredith Godreau preach.
From my 4” speakers
I like to imagine she sings only for me.
Her words exist in emotions that I only dare dream of
As I scribble something insignificant
And know that she will never read a word I’ve written
but why should she?
it’s not about me

As I find myself in this position of unrequited melodic infatuation
I feel that Eurydice would have empathized

You treat the spaces in between us
  like objects of permanence in the universe.

And I occasionally find myself offended by this attitude.

But as I watch your hands flying over the ivory
  twin prop airplanes preparing for the war.
Your fingers, mallets
  striking out every last imperfection in the keys.
Your voice is a siren piercing the night.

And I begin to understand
that you were right.
This is forever
and we're not going home.

We're just drifting.

I have this habit
of letting the past hold on to me
        like an apple
             determined to rot on the branches
      hanging shrunken and spoiled

The day the flies arrive I ask
                 "Is it that time already?"
             and try not to act surprised
     although it happens every year

But now it is spring
and my branches are light and free
and I'll enjoy it while it lasts