I am about to go down again,
like the creaking old elevator                            into
                                                                ­               the
                                                                ­               basement.

I know it
because I see it                    in my eyes                      gone dull.
In my lips drawn tight                    instead of                        smile         it was there for a while.
                                                          ­                       my usual

For a time         it felt nice           to feel nice.
For a while                                                            ­ I was happy.

I know this feeling
like I know myself                        because this is me

                                                             ­         depression.

Chair rocked back against the bricks
two splashes of blue
glossed over and steady
trained on Frost’s luminary clock
the two all too often paired
dwelling together on the cost of time
smoke from the cigarette at her lips dances off
and up into the sky.
A half bottle of grinning intoxication held fast
between her thighs,
nagging at the edge of her vision for attention.
The moon has often made for her, a poor date
but with the tools of inebriation close at hand
a deep wound quickly sinks to a dull ache
from a dull ache to a mild consideration
and finally forgotten,
until the moon falls again from the sky.
with this she thoughtful twists the cap
back onto the bottle.
coherent enough to tell her date
“Best to save some for tomorrow night”
the moon seemed to give its silent approval.

sneakers laced up tight
double knotted
and tucked in to the left side of either shoe.
a ritual for the runner.
I’ve got this theory,
that people hate to run
because it gives them too much time alone
with themselves.
for me there’s always been something soothing there
no past
no future
even the ipod fades out to dim beat
not unlike the tic of a clock
beside your writing desk.
so im left with just the sound of my feet
the rhythm of my breath
and that refreshing taste of cool morning air
no past
no future
no thoughts
there are few finer things
than the emptiness of the road.

an empty wallet
a few crumbled up credit card receipts
and the spare change leftover
from another days haste,
pulled out of yesterday's jeans,
and strewn across her nightstand.
the one right beside the half-empty bed
because full was never
just someone.

We studied the science of sleep
in a pile on my bed.

Hiding under the covers,
I kissed you on your head.

Although we were awake,
everything felt like a dream.

When the morning came around,
I was sad to see you leave.

i can hear the old body of a cat creaking between my ears the rushing of the wind outside is enormously pale breasted i cup myself into a fist of warm andream of almost you nearly more than farther are i put my leg over a pillow the tension in my hips release remembering a pillow used to be your hips my hips tension



Releasing