no taste.

still, though,
cool and crisp enough
to bring about a smile.

and what a relief,
what a change of pace
to write a poem
about something that don’t deserve no poetry,

for once.

i feel a little bubble of anger,
of bitterness
at the knowledge that the words come easier when my mouth is on fire.

what the hell.
for a few seconds the cool seeds slide down easy.

no taste.

(a.m.)

in the early morning hum,
in the beat of the drum of the white noise and the misplaced light, i
treasure you.
the sole familiar thing.

an old, cloying taste
clings to my mouth.
i think you are sleeping.
i know? you are sleeping.
i awoke to silence filled by your silence.
i know you are sleeping;
i felt loved by your silence, still.

i know this is love i imagine for myself in the ways i need it most;
i know how this goes.

in the early morning hum,
in the beat of the drum of the white noise and the misplaced light,
i allow myself to feel a very real fear that you
will be everything i needed
and almost everything i want.

and so in preparation,
a separation:
i shift and twitch and shiver until i am at once here
and not,
until i am at once here
and in the moment,
some way down the line,
that old, cloying taste magnified,
when all comes to pass as i knew it would and i can say
“i knew it would.”
i know how this goes.

you take the morning bus to secaucus,
and i, the one to new york.
when sleep greets me and leans my head
gently
against the window pane,
i will let it come.
i will let it try to fill your absence
in ways i know to be short-lived, for naught,
but i will let it try.

i will miss you when i wake up,
miss the silence that i thought you crafted for me,
but which was really just
silence.
i will miss you when i wake up as i miss you when you are next to me.
i want, for us, something infinite:
that which we cannot have and which you do not want,
hard as i wish you did.

but.
the sun rises —
i know how this goes —
and the misplaced light finds its place again.
the silence i thought you crafted for me, which was really just
silence,
becomes noise.
hectic. colorful without order.
i will miss you when i wake up,
but what ache is strong enough to pull something personal
from all that noise?

you take the morning bus to secaucus,
and somewhere in new york i try to live a life as though you have already left me.
if i had my way,
hopeful, futile grasps towards the infinite would not hold ample weight for a haunting.

and yet,
that old, cloying taste.

still.

(a.m.)

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.

"I guess–I don't know–underneath it all I'm just a romantic. I've loved (I will always love), and I suppose when I'm dead someday that will only be what's left: some vague echo of a moment I shared with someone. But really, and truthfully, I loved them in that moment.

And I will live, who knows how long, but I will live and I will carry in my heart those moments. The tasting and touching of those moments. I will hold them in my heart, and in my own way, I will always love them. Each one. Each moment and tongue.

It is sad and it is wonderful–that I got to have any of them at all, and that I got to have none of them. But that's probably on me–I'm not always the best person.  

I don't know, I guess I'll just keep trying. But please know I loved them. All of them, in their own way.

I'm sorry for who I am. I'm sorry if I ****** up. I just wanted to be happy. I just wanted to taste someone's skin and live.

Maybe tomorrow I'll die. Who knows.

Anyway, I love you. Goodnight."

i'm sure it was exciting for you
i only wanted to feel something
the sequel is never as good
everything was sold at auction
cold cement my only friend

Someone asked me the other day
If I knew you.
A million replies shot through my head,
But the one that came out of my mouth
Was, "No, not anymore."
At first I thought this was a straight up lie,
But as I started to turn away
And move on to something else,
I realized it wasn't.

I don't know you anymore.
I can't remember what your face looks like.
That might have something to do with
The fact that I try to avoid
All photos of you.
Actually, I avoid anything
That might send a memory of you
Flashing across my eyelids.
I'm wary of sleeping again
Because I don't want to dream of you.
I've stopped listening to country music
Because the emotions it evokes from me
Remind me of the times I was with you.
I've stopped playing my guitar and violin
Because I was happiest
Playing them for you.
I've stopped living because without you,
It's just not good enough.
You told me that you'd never leave,
That no matter what our relationship
Eventually looked like
You'd always be my family.
But you did leave,
And I don't have a family.
I've been wallowing in
That for months now.
Bemoaning my loss.
Not exactly grieving,
For to grieve involves
Facing certain things and
Deciding to let them go and move on.
No,
I have been wallowing in a hole of self-pity.
And it's rather disgusting.
Covered with the mud and
**** that is my life.
No wonder people don't want
Long-term relationships with me.
I'm broken and not worth their time
Or energy or life.

I've got to face the music now.
I've got to decide to stand up,
Wash myself off, and leave
This somewhat
Comfortable-only-because-it's-familiar hole.
And I think that I've somewhat
Begun to do that.
I mean, how else could I have said
"No, not anymore"
And meant it.
It's a good thing
I don't know you anymore.
You were part of my past.
But you were also someone
Who kept me in that hole.
And even though
A part of my heart loved you,
I don't want that hole to be my life.

So I'm standing up for myself now.
I'm washing myself off.
And this time, I'm doing the walking away.
From now on, when someone asks me
if I know you,
I think I'll continue to reply,

*"No, not anymore."