You sit across from me, fingers tapping on the table like an old, tired clock  
the coffee’s lukewarm, or maybe it’s just me, just us, cooled down past feeling  
I think I know what you’re about to say—each word feels predictable,  
like something we’ve each rehearsed in silence, rehearsed in sleep  
over all those quiet nights stacked like dusty paperbacks in the dark.  

You start to speak, and it’s all at once a whisper and a thunder  
this is going nowhere, you say, eyes unfocused, tracing patterns in the grains of the table  
but they could be roads we didn’t take, conversations we skimmed over like surface water,  
laughs that slid away from us, thin as the ghosts of things we meant to say.  

You remember? I ask, but the question is a loose thread, unwinding  
you don’t answer, or maybe I don’t want you to, afraid that the answer  
is already a shrug, a frown, something we didn’t even bother to feel fully  
perhaps that’s where we lost it, somewhere in all the half-hearted glances,  
in words we threw out like pennies, thinking they meant so little.  

And you’re saying something now about how we grew apart  
how things faded, softened, grew heavy,  
but it just sounds like rain hitting a window in the next room  
distant, muffled, and I’m not sure if you’re talking to me  
or if you’re just talking to the echo of us, hanging in the air like stale perfume.  

Maybe it’s been over for a long time, we both realize, like realizing  
the book is already finished, though you’re still holding it,  
turning the last page back and forth as if another ending might slip in  
but there’s nothing, only the way your face looks in this light,  
so familiar it’s like staring at a stranger in a mirror.  

And I think, somewhere, we both hope one of us will say something grand  
something that burns, something that brings back color, sound, a heartbeat  
but the silence sits there, a wall between us, and we’re leaning back now  
resigned, emptied, watching each other through a film of memories  
wondering why we ever tried so hard, or if we tried at all.

I looked at my hands the other day.
Really looked.
I saw the flesh, and the sinew, and the odd curves as the tendons snake their way back into their home

I saw my right ring finger;
Remembered there was a scar
And I looked,
For a while.
And I saw it

Faded but there,
Clear and standing.
Brazen roughness against the smooth porcelain.

I remember an event,
I'm not quite sure.
A fall.
A scrape.
A tumble.
Some sort of momentary tragedy.

I don't remember how it happened now.
And I found comfort in that thought.

remembering so vividly
the promises you spoke
the way they remained long after you left
the roses whiting away beside my bed
remembering is painful
but i can never forget
tried to smoke away, drink my regret
but you are at the bottom of the bottle
diagnosis
hypnosis
remembering too potent

Laugh.
Smile.
Don't pay attention to the pain of depression.
Don't brood on the things that force emotional concession.
Try to act average, don't draw attention.
Remember, seeing a loved one suffer can be harder on others.
Like thick smoke in a house, it brings tears and it smothers.
So when you feel empty, put on a smile.
It won't help yourself, but it might spare some pain for your sisters and brothers.
Just because you feel it, you don't have to show it.
The pain can be non-contaguous if no one else knows it.
Just make no important decisions while you're feeling below low.
You can't take that route, that's not how I'll go.
Just fight the good fight, and try not to cry.
That just makes things worse, I don't know why.
You have Hope, just keep the Word in your heart, and your eyes to the sky.
Things will be painful but this too shall pass.
Life is good, even though I feel low.
Keep this in your head:
Feeling low and alive, is better then getting high and then dead.
Yes, it seems obvious, but it had to be said.
If you keep these notes stored up in your head,
Then you'll seem less abnormal, more average instead.

Remember when you heard my name for the first time?

You thought it was a play on words;

I said it was just a play,

and you laughed like you knew the difference.

Remember the glittering forever you saw in my eyes?

I told you it was a trick of the light.

You said it was just a trick, but
we could make it real by wanting it—so I started wanting it.

You asked about my favorite lie, and I said, “I don’t know.”

You laughed, either because you got it,

or because you didn’t—and that was just as funny.


You didn't lift the weight of my words,

how they sank like stones in my stomach, obscuring my glitter,

waiting to see if you'd notice when they lost their shimmer.

Remember why we didn’t drive to the coast?

You thought I was scared of the ocean,

but I knew it had swallowed too many endings already.

The waves couldn’t wash away your ambiguity;

they would only drown my swell no salt could soften.

Remember that postcard I never sent?

You shouldn’t, but I feel like you would.

I wrote it one night in a knot of longing and spite:

“Wish you were here, but it might be better that you’re not.”

How many Dear John's sit sealed, unsent,

lost in transit between what was promised and what was kept?

Between what was enchanted, and what’s now dead?

Remember the night I asked what you'd save in a fire?

You said, “Everything.”

Like you could shove hearts and histories into pockets

without splitting seams. You can’t escape unscathed,

lock the door, and not stink of the charred bits you abandoned.

Meaning things and speaking things are not the same,

and if I wasn’t choking on smoke, I might try to tell you:

some things are meant to burn—

Some things are both the light and the trick
and the play goes on regardless.

Dreary eyed and worn tired,
On last legs, to stand defiant
Against the falling away of time,
Heavy handed and unceasing.

I remember.

Through the haze of blue white mist,
A familiar feeling,
A perceiving glance,
Breaks forth a spring of fresh thought
That flows down the back of my mind
To whet the stone,
And let memory sharpen.

I remember.

Restored from grey depths
Of dismal slumber;
To stand tall once more,
And seize the joy and pain
That first wove it into me.

I remember.

To hold that moment at times edge,
And share it once more
with the heart's palette.
To give colour to thought,
And meaning to the mind.

I remember.

And so the memory carries on
Till the stone is dry,
And the blade is weak and worn.
The withered thought, falls to rest
Under the pauper's headstone.

...Remember?