i wrote a lot of great poetry when i was in love
i wrote even better poetry when i was in pain
i wrote the best poetry when i realized that the two emotions were actually the same.

as rain brusquely clears a
window's record, and a screen
grays the glinting heads of
drops.
as the bacon-brittle bars of a
fire escape press against the
dully scratched green of
distant trees.
melancholy skims the ears,
sews shut their fetal-shaped
holes.

don't sweat it
you'll make it all the way
to your death

This day was fused with difficulty and a newer sun
The only note this night can end on, is a bad one
In the rush I fell further from life, poor fortune seemed impaled
The crude white's new and improved hypocrisy had been scaled
A restless heart burns beneath these bones with a trembling sigh
As I'm identified, it hits like vesta when these loaned emblems tie

Someday,
my hands will be full
of callouses,

old
with wrinkles,
like ripples
in time.

The skin
will flake and dry,
and I
will give thanks
as I sleep.

Someday.