From the subtle strokes
of a solemn wrist.
I can see so much
of her on this page.

It could be sadness,
or laughter.
Love sonnets,
or groceries.

Like her eyes,
I get lost
in the flow
of her lines.

❦

There is no such thing
Only the state
In which its awareness is lagging

Small little shirt boxed away,
Not a stain to be seen.

Small little pants boxed away,
Not a hole to be found.

Small little shoes boxed away,
Not a flaw to be seen.

Small little child boxed away,
Forever in the ground.

-ARI

What kind of warning signs were you expecting?
     Would she pour her mistakes
         into a crystal dish
            and set them before you?
Would she hang makeup stained
    pillow cases out of her window
        each morning?
Would she break skin
     below the hem lines
        with the hope
            that you would notice?
We don't often get
    the warning signs
       that our eyes are trained to see.
We don't get warning signs at all.
     we get wake up calls
we get fists full of cold pills
seen from under the bathroom stall.
We get to make phone calls
with seconds to spare.
We get to shake so violently
that our hands forget they are hands.
We get to answer seemingly
unimportant questions
to dispatchers who hear this
       all the time.
We get to wonder
if survival instincts are real.

We get to wonder
why anyone  anywhere
would ever name their daughter
                 Rosemary.

A little less than classy.
A **** and chuck,
one and done.
But that's fine with me, baby.
No emotions,
no feelings.
Just two lonely souls that make something
that doesn't come close to love, at night.
I wonder what we could bring to the table
if we laid our hearts down
like sacrifices to a God we don't believe in.
And I want to hear you plead guilty
to the jury of my not-so-innocence
because the only praise I'll ever get from you is
the sound of my clothes piling up on your floor.

Is your mind's Identity, a compilation of events that you have witnessed, through your senses, thoughts actions, and uttered sentences have set themselves on a set of shelves in your mental book case. But so many names to face there's not enough space to keep it all straight, so it escapes. My past it fades and gaps make way to take its place, and now my story looses some glory. Things I have done, lessons learned from someone will help me none if I can remember them poorly. I am hardly an entity with any identity if my foundation of memories decays from under me exponentially.

So see me again, some other time when I'm on your mind, and you ought to find then that I'm a new man with new opinions. So then you'll bend, changing the image of me in your head. It's good to see you again Old Friend. You say and exchange the same handshake as when we were both young sit back and pretend, reminisce about days together we'd spend. You've still got some vivid depictions to lend to this old man who's past escapes him.

And that's why brother its good to have each other, a constant in my life, a bond easily recovered. And that's why this better last forever. No matter how we drift, spirits stay tethered together. Cause at the end of one's life we've got two things left. Our memories, and our old friends to share them with.