so what, she wants to try to be objective?


hurled insults, but rooted in

knowing

your knowing is rooted in

chaos

Subjectivity? Objectivity?

Fine, just fine

sit at the table over a glass of wine

and sip, sip, know

knowledge, in little droplets

drips off the balcony

oh, I guess that was that

Is easy

for me

I clean the floors

and the dishes

and I give her kisses

right now there are eleven empty containers of alcohol in my bedroom,
but it's fine, i'm fine.
i've been telling myself for more than a year
that i wasn't going to write anymore sad ****** poems about you,
but here we are.
most days i'm sure i don't miss you,
but then i listen to the wrong song,
and before i know it -
i'm screaming along to band of horses in the dark,
stalking your twitter favorites,
and somehow,
i've managed to get snot on my forehead.
yeah, nostalgia is an *******
but not all the memories sting.
there was that one time we went to the movies
and i slipped on some ice and fell flat on my ***.
i just sat there while you took a picture.
but i'm glad we could laugh about it.
i'm glad we were comfortable.
in my head, we still are.
in my head, we're oversized-goodwill-sweater comfortable.
we aren't as comfortable in real life
but i'm glad we still laugh.
this is the part where i don't bring up the time you told me
my laughter could cure your sadness,
because i'm pretty sure i already put that in another poem,
and it makes me really ******* sad.
did i ever tell you i used to play guitar and piano?
i loved them, but i never tried very hard.
i wanted to be good without having to practice.
i wanted to be good without having to practice.
i wanna meet the girl you write about
so i can ask her how she manages not to love you back.
because i've tried everything & i am so tired.
i forgot this wasn't supposed to be a sad poem.
i'm not good at happy anyway,
i never have been.
but in your absence i've learned a lot about softness.
so if i ever find myself back in your passenger seat,
i won't correct you when you sing the wrong lyrics,
i won't ask why when you take the long way home.
i won't ask you why you don't have your seatbelt on,
i'll just say a silent prayer
and watch for signs that you might be about to swerve.
right now there are eleven empty containers of alcohol in my bedroom,
and i didn't find you at the bottom of a single one.

- m.f.

not heartbreak
not solitude
not hurt
left those things behind

forgiven a few things, others come back in a rush and haunt me
read a few more things, they make me weaker, while they help pass the time
passing the time is one of the best things

developing a gut, a love of food

drinking too much, but romancing just the same, even better

not a character, a person, walks down the street, notices the restaurants, wants to sit at the nicer ones

wants to be a court reporter, a teacher, maybe

sits on the couch and watches sitcoms

cooks pasta, cooks breakfast

tells the iCloud to go away, remind me later

late nights rarer, comfortable with lazy body

grown out the beard, again

not heartbreak
not solitude
not hurt

somebody

so what is boring?  what is normal?  what is comfort?


it’s fine, just fine

and the poetry is fine, too

and reading is easier

I started writing a book
and I have a title and everything

and I wrote the first few chapters


do all writers go through this, where they sit and wonder...

do I need to live more?