I hope fall is
being sweet
in the cereal isle
& making playlists to
pick pecans
off the ground
in Brownwood Park

lips to the path
between shoulder
blades like
fingers to
moss
& the dissection
of your dialect when
you say
hello

I cried
Driving home
From the bar
But I just work there
Mostly
The moon I poked out
Of the clouds to
Taunt me
maybe -
I’m not sure -
But she was Beautiful
And big
And she was taking up space
I want to take up space
Steal light to give
Others when it’s
Dark

I’m no good at
Crying &
Driving
But I think
I’m good
I think
I’m good
At other things

It’s 8 am
And I was writing
Poems in my sleep
Perfect prose
If every
Mundane minute
Was at least
A year
Coffee stirrers
And reaching
Into the glove box
For ribbon

8 am and it’s
The third morning I’ve had today

Low flying planes and
The bruises on my legs
Not sure where
They’re from
But I can guess that they’ll
Fade bluish black
Then yellow out
Like the tobacco
Stains I’m sure you
Have on your walls
From smoking in
Your room when it’s cold
It’s too cold
And I think for the first
Time in awhile I really
Feel
Alone
Like how it could
Feel maybe
In space
Or under cool
Dark
Water

it's winter
again
and i'm somehow
always surprised
by the leaves
changing
and dropping
like edits
to your smile

my cupids bow
cracked
from weather,
weathering,
&  the softening
at your touch
crumbling
again and again
just like the leaves
do
in
winter

and I don't think my lips will ever heal

Wishing
You were the
Tingle at the
Nape of my
Neck

Shaking hands
Not to be confused with
A meeting over
Four cups of coffee
Cream & sugar
The bridge between
Lips and a
Bitter water you
Grow into
Sometimes intolerant
My hands are shaking
Over caffeinated
And wet from walking
Down Moreland
Touching everything
I can