My hands fly across the key board as I search around.
Not for anything in particular, just watching people cross in front of my eyesight.
A girl walking in circles in  a blue fleecy vest, talking on the phone.
I remember my father telling me the importance of leaning to type without having to look at the keyboard.
I thought he was stupid.
I thought it was silly.
I ****** at typing.
I still use three fingers only, mainly.
Pinky for the shift key occasionally.
Right ring finger for the return key.
I don’t even use the thumb for the space bar
Like you’re supposed to-
I use my right pointer finger.
I always had to endure the agony of typing with
The Box
Over my fingers in elementary school.
My best friend can recreate fond memories of a 10-year-old me
Squeezing
My eyeballs shut,
Lining up my fingers, my tongue sticking out,
Only to discover
I had typed everything
Wrong
Start over.
But having entered the college age.
I’m happy to be able to
Glance
Around
While I work.
Makes it seem like some automaton is recording my thoughts, which I don’t even have to think About as I
Consider a flowerpot full of yellow flowers…pansies?
So the poet was right.
He was always looking out windows.
Like all his poems would come streaming through them.
Bits of cloudy thoughts captured on paper, because his
Eyes were free to wander.
Silly poet.
Silly little girl.
Asdf
Lkjh
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When loved by an addict
you may run the risk of them finding another addiction in the softest touch of your skin
or the happiest gazes of your eyes
or the way your mouth curves into a smile

Maybe just your voice

When I think of my grandma, Bettie,
I want to know how she felt when the doctors plucked
one of her husband’s lungs from his chest like it was the petal of a flower
I wonder if she whispered
“he loves me not”
like we did as school children

When I think about the day he died
I imagine Bettie holding rib cutters over his body
cutting through his chest
pulling him open,
Plucking the right lung from his chest
saying “He loves me”

Before my grandfather’s death
I never saw Bettie smile the way she does now
I wonder if she walks with Marvin’s lung in her right pocket
whispering
“He loves me.”
“He loves me.”
“He loves me.”

To know you are loved by an addict,
You must see they have the ability to pull away from the substance they have come to love as much as the oxygen they need to survive-
But without asking them to.

I wonder if there will come a day
when I find a woman
that I would keep myself
on this planet longer for
try to save myself from the family tradition of dying due to substance abuse
Some nights
I drink shots of gin
1. “I’ll find her.”
2. “I won’t.”
3. “I’ll find her.”
4. “I won’t”
At noon,
I wake to an empty bottle,
But I don’t remember what phrase I ended on.

I am plucking away at these flowers
trying to find the petal that could draw me away:
It goes:
“Not this one.”
“Maybe it’s her.”
“Not this one.”
“Not this one.”
“Not this one.”

At dawn,
the flowers stand
with petals outstretched like they are getting ready to fly
every one of them is shining due to the glistening dew
I ask myself
staring out the window at this floral covered plain
what life was for my grandfather
wish I had taken the time to know how he knew
my tiny, brunette, curly haired grandmother
was the right woman for him
and how he found her petal
in this field
of flowers.

When tracing stars
In the palm of my hands
I wondered about the galaxies
That envelop us so serenely
And thought about the revolving planets
That are always in the right place
I wonder where me and my stellar palms
Fit in between all of these universes.

I have a story. But it’s going to sound like a bad one.
I know I’m not good at them, I make them boring and start to ramble on and use run on sentences but that’s just because I don’t know how to say what I’m trying to become --
Like that.
****.
But yeah. Here goes-

I was lost in a crowd. This crowd,
of, onyx and granite, thieves and bandits and hopeless romantics,
and I was beginning to become one of them…
my voice was losing it’s sound.
But in this crowd of blacks, grays, and whites,
something stood out, this shining light
of green
and I didn’t really know what to do
(as you can see, I’m not too good at explaining things)
That green just so happened to be you
And the way this story goes, you pulled me out of that crowd,
and saved me
from a brief eulogy.

But let’s say, in our story, that green went away
and left me in a state of… disarray.
So I’m watching that green step foot on a different land
with my mind repeating “until we meet again”
Not knowing what I’d do without a yin
to lend a hand to my yang
As I felt the metallic tang of regret, pain, and hellish heartbreak rise in my main vein and artery --
I’m rambling.
Long story medium, I went without the green
and the sun shined a harsh light. The sheen got to me… I was growing crazy.
I had to leave.

I was at a train station, in a bustling crowd
full of gray faces, and black sounds
I couldn’t hear, it was so loud,
But I could see.
And I saw a train stop, doors open, and a ray of green
And that green just happened to be you
And all I remember thinking was
********, you're beautiful.