My life has been
Thus far
Like a sidewalk.
Each blue gray square of new cement
Creating a thin and detached line
Between the last.
The grass pops up between each
Massively insignificant slab
Like little finger puppets
They pop up
And talk to each other
About how much it must hurt
To die.

5 days ago the moon was dark
Deep blue
The color below the water’s surface
Below the depth of your eyes
Lowering softly into the
Cup of wind
Pouring itself over the broken edges
And scooping up everything you spilled.
5 nights ago the sun set early
Rose early
Unfolding it’s arms like it was welcoming
It’s unseen fate
Ready to crash
Into your open eyes
Embracing the halo of mist
Around your muddled palms
Never forget the palm of your hand
Never forgot the creases
Swimming below your eyes.

They told me
I wasn’t acting like the season.
This season is underripe
Undersaturated
The grapes are beads
Hanging
From massive limbs.
The rose buds
Are discolored
Pale
And bitter.
Upstairs the paint is melting off
In massive chips
The wall is revealed
Sun tanned
Jaded
And sad.
They told me
I wasn’t acting like the season.
This season is overripe
Acrid and moldy
Brown alcohol
Pooling at the bases
Of decorative pears.
The leaves
Are too old
Shedding ancient tears
And falling
In order to catch the ground
That is laying cold
Beneath you.