over analysis

of unexpected poetry

pretty words on a pretty page on a pretty day

(****)

i climbed the tree because it was there

and because i need a classical role on my resume

I said darjeeling and masochism,

you said

that sounds like a nice day

Chalkboard

Blindfold

Ripped Jeans

take

off

your

glasses

Getting lost in a city that wears me too well

A man yells and a well-dressed older woman smokes a cigarette

and I turn left on fifth.

If you took a picture of this city,

an instant of stillness

no one would be able to tell if it was falling apart or coming together.

I don’t know how love works.

But I know I left you on a Sunday after spending six months trying to shove the words that escaped me into the dozens of envelopes that you had sent over the last six years.

I don’t know how loves works but I know that Christmas Eve, when you held me and I cried, it was because I was already losing track of your world map hands as you navigated the clams in the soup your brother made.

I don’t know how love works, but I know that over spring break, i bought flowers i knew you wouldn’t even like to say I’m sorry, even though I knew I was just trying to make things better temporarily until I got the courage to say goodbye.

I don’t know how love works, but I know that when you force feed yourself a certain amount of affection, your body starts to reject it. You can only fill up so much artificial substitute for love, like cotton candy filling up my head and grape flavoring spilling out of my mouth all over your bedsheets like the time i was drunk and spilled hot chocolate with marshmallows and you yelled at me like they would never be clean again.

I can’t love a terrarium. I get too frustrated with things I can’t touch. I can’t fill up any more phone calls with rainstorms and giving up.

i think i meant to tell you that i loved you

but instead i told you about a dream i had where you locked me in a room and wouldn’t shut up about your socks.

i think i meant to ask you to kiss me

but instead i asked for a cigarette on your porch even though it was cold out and I wanted to go home.

i think i meant to tell you i trust you

but instead i told you to buy a notebook and fill it with lists so that your mind can work again.

mornings ****. mornings are the worst thing in the entire world. i wake up every day far too aware of your absence in my bed, on the window side. You’d face the wall and let me cuddle up and touch your hair until you fell asleep, snoring. I ******* loved your snoring, and I don’t really understand why. You’d lie down for just a few moments, and then fall asleep mid-sentence, parts of you still awake. You could be snoring and still braiding my hair, or kissing my hands. Sometimes you’d fall asleep on an angle and your breathing would scare me so I’d wake you up just for a second to try and get you to face the right way, but you never remembered in the morning, so I figured you weren't too bothered. when i told you, you said that you wished i were as nice to you when you're awake as i am when you’re asleep.  I wake up wanting to hold you and want to call you and say “love, i’m so so so so so sorry. forget it, let’s try again. one more time,” but you always said I was awful at apologies. i probably am. i don’t know, i haven’t apologized to anyone in a while.

is there a word for the way it feels to cry in front of the Water Lilies in the museum?

is there a word for when your teeth taste like blood from getting punched in the heart?

is there a word for the moment when you say the last words you ever wanted to say to the boy?

there should be.

maybe then I could understand what it takes to tell someone that you hope they wake up feeling alone.

Who I’ve become is someone I respect.