Once, I was happy.
I was a poet, and I was full of love.
I laughed at the sun, who shown no brighter than me.

I had a hand to hold:
a fragile glass piano hand, but she was mine to hold.
Though she did not shatter, she slipped out of my hands.

Now her fragile glass piano hands run through hair not my own.
Her gaze falls on not my face, but the
faces of others.

I curse at the sun, who mocks my sufferable misery.
My writing dwindled, my drinking amplified,
and I became a drunken poet.

The children throw stones at me,
the lovers weep for me.
The mothers pray their babies will never become me.

Perhaps one day her fragile glass piano hand will slip back in place with me,
but until then,
a drunken poet remains.

How dare you use Frank Sinatra against me.
Everything else, fine, but
Frank was mine.

I'm sick to my stomach.
You stabbed me with the dullest blade possible.
It's in deep, and I'm bleeding everywhere.

But you can't use Frank Sinatra in this battle,
it's absolutely cruel.

I gave you Frank in love, and you use him in hate.
I have never been so disgusted with you as I am now.

I want my Frank Sinatra albums back, you don't
understand the real meaning of love.

The smell of oil paint;
I'm ready to fly
home.

My wings are clipped,
my lungs full of water.
No, I don't need you.

My fingers are numb from holding on,
I'm letting go.

It's easier falling out of the sky
flying beneath your rays had grown old.

You sold my wings,
I'm drowning.

Gasping for air, gasping for air,
push me further down.

The sound of your rustling wings,
surrounded by water,
I'm going
home.

So, here I am, Thanksgiving, nine o'clock.
Drinking cherry ***** and Diet Coke in my basement, thinking about you.
I want to call you, tell you the honest-to-god truth that I love you,
but I'm drunk and you're gone.

So I wish you were here too, Thanksgiving, nine o'clock.
Being drunk and silly and dancing and kissing.
But it's just me, being drunk listening to Ladies of Cambridge on repeat.

So I really want to call you and let you know that I thought of you
at least twenty-seven times each day this week,
but I won't because I'm drunk and nervous.

So I am writing poetry alone in my basement
on Thanksgiving, nine o'clock, drunk.
Vampire Weekend makes good company, I wish you were here.

My feet are bruised and my toes are blue.
I fell asleep on the floor, listening to the Beatles
with the lights on,
thinking of you.

Flowers sit atop my head as I rise
from my slumber.
Were you not here at one point during my repose?

Yes, you were here, as I recall,
dancing on the air around me.
I watched you fall from your spot in the sky,
as I slept underneath.

You frequent the space I occupy, but only in my slumber.
You have the tendency to evaporate upon my stirring.
This, darling, is why I cannot afford insomnia,
for I would never see you.

Which is why I fell asleep thinking of you,
listening to the Beatles
with the lights on, on the floor,
with bruised feet and blue toes.

Trying* to write with a broken pencil.
Trying to fly with clipped wings.
Trying.

I'm trying to talk to you, but there is
a door between us.
I'm trying to open it, but it's locked from the inside.

Like trying to come up with the next line of a poem,
you're on the tip of my tongue.
Roll off my tongue and dance in my ears,
at least say you'll try.