What happens to poetry
When it only exists
While it’s drunk?

I miss the sound of snow crunching under my brown boots,
walking back to her, my friend—
Friends; people who, for goodness,
We beat and live and cheer each other,
cheer in the midst of our shattering, the fall-down,
and the rise—

and I was walking back to her,
my dearest,
dearest friend.

Do you think of me?

When you watch all those cliches,
—that you like a lot, by the way,—

Trinkets, Duff, “To All the Boys I Loved Before,”
when you watch that girl,

Do you think of us?

maybe if I close my eyes,
if I stop thinking
Maybe the world will stop turning with me,
like a friend

And in this magnificient pause,
in that glorious stop,

maybe we’ll breathe.

Not that it matters anymore!
Who knows?
Where will I be in ten, two
minutes, years?

Nor do I, you see,
nor do I know.

You, you elusive you,
whoever you are.
Yes, I'm speaking to you.

Here, "let me hold that soul for you".
Stranger, I know you,
Like I know how my heart bleeds in the middle of the night,
how I know my dry lips and skin rest on my crumpled bed sheets,
like I know my purged belly wrinkles itself inside out,
like I know the secrets hiding in my closet,
the many diaries I haven't been able to throw out,

You, dearest stranger,
you and I share this amazing pain,
this, this human-ness.

I don't know you, but I know you. Too well.
Here, "let me hold that soul for you".
If we drown, we drown together.

I sit here drunk,
think: no one is here.

but I'm here,
and all of their teachings, all of a sudden
all of their words,
the comfort of old friends that I don't have anymore,

My heart keeps them.
This treasure,
beautiful treasure, of mine.

I'm lonely,
but I'm not.

I love you, I miss you.