I've grown tired of love poems,
They are all dried up ink,
Forgotten valentines,
Stale ideas to think,
Upon receiving your letter,
I remembered the weather,
Care package bouquets,
and I hope you get betters,

He's the best,
The silliest.
He's an idiot,
The stupidist.

I know right?
For real tho.
You're lying.
You don't know.

Because he's perfect.
In every single way.
But I'd never say it.
Not to his face.

Not because I'm shy,
Not because I'm afraid.
But because I know inside,
He doesn't feel the same.

So I'll keep this smile right on my face.
Call him a baka, just like any other day.

The only time capsule
I ever buried
is decomposing
in the bottom of my belly

filled with the different ways
I have not been able to
cope with loss

It resurrects names
remembers faces
who are changing
and living in different states
while I am still trying to digest
their absence

It looks for the bundle of fur
that once modeled a now
empty, worn collar
unable to comprehend
only one set of brown eyes
gazing up from the floor
during Sunday morning coffee

It is learning to accept its reflection
could just as easily be
a shadow

I feel like such an idiot because,
My thoughts are masochistic.
I don't know if I should feel-
Embarrassed or desolate.

Maybe scummy is a better word.