My body doesn't work how it's supposed to
(as if there's a way it's supposed to)
(as if there's anything I can do about it.)

Every morning and every night
I take my handful of vitamins
Mix my herbs with scalding hot water
Empty of myself, I fill with what I should be
(According to those who aren't me.)

I spent decades cultivating myself
I was loud
Educated
A good friend
Generous
Funny
Quick to laugh

And isn't it ******
So egregiously unfair
That there is no room in my garden for all that
And what I'm supposed to be
(as if there's a way I'm supposed to be).

All because my body doesn't work how it's supposed to
(as if there's a way that it's supposed to).

There are two half-full cups of coffee on my desk
(and one in my car).
But you'd make me more in the morning
If I asked.
Like how you would drive my car in the rain,
Because I can't see the road
(even though I never told you I couldn't)
And then make me watch bad movies.
You're better than the rain,
You're the whole monsoon season,
Shaking the whole world up with yourself,
And making it better every time.

I live in a desert
My Dear.
With a loopy-eyed cat who bites
and a roommate who might as well.
All of my clothes are ripped and stained
and I don't know where I'll be working tomorrow.

The other vagrants and I
We can't afford to stay,
but we can't afford the gas to leave,
either.
The summers are too hot--
the winters are too cold--
and the days and the nights are too dangerous.

But we're here
and we're young.
And someone has to feed the cat.

She wanted him.

Not the him who calls after midnight
from a diner off the freeway
Because he doesn't work for another 12 hours and if she wants to have dinner with him this week
she'll come

But the him who drinks coffee with her in the morning before work
after their alarm told them
they'd slept tangled in each other,
again.

He's still new.
Sipping on the same soda from the same restaurant after two years
Wearing the same shirt, same colors, same car. Two years later.
He has a new job-- new watch.
But the same haircut.
The same drunken goodnight kiss on the same mattress we've slept on after going to all of the same bars.
Paying with the same credit card, ordering the same food.
Falling asleep the same way.
But after two years
Every good morning feels so new, every good night so wonderful
And he still looks at me like I'm brand new every time.

Our hearts don't break
For lack of love.

Plenty of people do not love me,
And I lose no sleep.

Perhaps your heart breaks for those who do not love you.
But mine,
Mine,
Mine.
Breaks into pieces every time I realize that
Love is not enough.

He knew--
Not well, but he knew--
What she was.
That she was the steam coming off a cup of coffee
No cream-- no sugar--
Bitter & Dark.
And she would rather drink alone than drink what she wasn't
What she didn't want.
But little by little he added
Some grains of sugar.
Some drips of cream
Until she was cool and light.
And now he's sad to see there's no steam.
She lost who she is, he forgot what she was,
And they just don't know each other anymore.