everyone is so afraid.
they are shakin gand trembli ngand un stable

everyone is so afraid that someone will say it.
they eat their food and kiss their wives
and dot their i's but they are TERRIFIED

everyone is so afraid that someone will point it out.
that there is something wrong with the dinnerware

it cuts at their fingers - white plates turned red
the teapot so far gone that the smell
of chamomile stains the tablecloth
they are stifled - watching in horror as their forks split porcelain to
pieces; and more; and more; and  more  . . .  splintering into obscurity

the china is Cracked. and everyone knows

in a book, this would mean something
a metaphor for loss or a symbol of death
in a book, i'd be crying and hesitant
wiping away tears and smudging lead on lamp
in a book, this would be grieving

in a book, maybe things wouldn't turn out this way
some sort of redemption arc teased and foreshadowed
a sliver of hope
in a book, people would be easy to read
two-dimensional and predictable, no room for hurt in between the lines

in a book, maybe id be tracing this in pen
cradling every memory of mine with my heart held high and no regrets
loving every second of every
moment of every
happy ending

i erase and erase itching to burn the shavings and erase again
deleting years - erase
deleting smiles - erase
deleting fans - erase
deleting nights where he was all i had

in a book, maybe i wouldn't move on so quickly
maybe i would have waited before etching over the past so fast
in this book, would book-me incinerate her erasers?
would book-me close the back cover and pick up another read?

in a book, this would mean something
but it doesn't

today i woke up to a spirit.
i opened my eyes to nothingness, but i could feel the warmth radiating off of the dip in the bed.
at first i was dumbfounded
where were you? could you be the spirit?
and so i fell in l-o-v-e with it.

       wherever i go the spirit follows.
i feel it hold my hand
i feel it massage my shoulders
i feel its l-o-v-e giving me subtle back hugs through my days
seeing its blank pages and crestfallen words in a misted silhouette
dripping invisible ink and cloudless skies
it is not tall or short, nor boisterous or timid
its l-o-v-e lives in hushed sighs
thriving in times of need and want
licking at insecurity and toeing the line between warm and unwelcome

       the spirit’s words fill the stillness
replacing anything that was missing with a brand, NOT-MISSING, in bold red font
sorting emotions into definitions and not feelings
it plays lorde on tuesdays and falls asleep at three a.m.
organizing my books alphabetically because everything must make sense
things always needs to make sense
       It listens.

       the day you left i fell in l-o-v-e with a spirit.
the embodiment of your memory
the sweetness of its silence
the comfort of an embrace

       i, reality, woke up today
       you, abstract, seep into crevices where you do not belong

turning everything into meaningless greyscale
poking out of my head and into my business
into my life
into my spirit that reeks of ink and dust
as i choke and gag on the imaginary memories
slurring on sour, dingy and desperate hidden behind my teeth.
my spirit and i play mitski on fridays

it doesn’t speak
and it dare not sing along
prodding at delusion, the spirit wipes my tears
mouths that it will be here forever
smiles that you are a future tense
that the bed was always empty, and the warmth was my own heartbeat
that my soul would not let me down so easily
you left in a future tense
where the bed is not empty, and i do not wonder of nothing
where you will speak, and you will laugh, and you will play christmas songs in the middle of july
rebranding everything missing NOT-MISSING to memories

       and once the spirit leaves me, too?
at least i'll be prepared for the emptiness

in the gutter, she lost herself in waves and echoes
she found colors in their noise
brought her soul out as a brush
and let herself be free

building off of the whispers in the air,
she tangles herself in the wires of headphones much too silent
her hands wailing with her: offkey but peaceful
making art of a dartboard rather than a bullseye

she hears the texture, hears the emphasis, and the contrast
she paints notes, paints not so pitch-perfect progressions
bathing until her eardrums shake
and the canvas leaves no room for silence