Let's take a second
Recalibrate this conversation
You do know, right
That I am the hinge on this life
I don't want praise
Or a pat on the back
But even hinges need WD-40
From time to time.
**** it,
I need to be greased constantly
I'm needy in that way
(Therapy helps)
But look into my day-to-day:
On my left is the Wall,
My root and my reason
My family (my girls).
The Wall is permanent, important
(Those words don't do it justice)
On me it relies on necessities of life.
For that Wall, I hold the Door.
The Door on the right,
Replaceable, not solid,
It's a means (to an end)
That Door is temporary, minute
(Compared to the house)
And on me it rests, day in and day out.
On ME it rests
I  am the only hinge
The other?
We won't talk about him
But hinges only have two hands, you see
One on the wall, one on the door
I have no hands that are free
Hinges are fierce little *******
That are good at their jobs
But they age all the same

So *******.

I'm a 40-hour a-week'er,
365 days a mommy,
But nobody calls me 'wife',
Sleepy most days,
Donuts no glaze,
Navigating a new life.

It was an atmosphere
It was an oxygen mixed with southern fog
Southpaw gloves tied in sailor knots
Waves of golden grains in ocean wind
The rolling hills behind property lines

It was the question you asked
not with words but in the way you breathed against the window glass
as I leaned against your Corolla
And we sang under the overpass

It was graffiti
It was graffiti
It was the cavernous concrete cats with purple hair and acid wash jean jackets
melting the light of their city's street lamps into the obsidian void of moistened pavement

It was the way the reverb spread the major seventh across the sky with burnt orange cascading into the violet of the minor ninth
which reminds me of crickets and summer nights (and violins and cellos and midwestern jazz bars)
and how bar chords are a guitarists way of flipping off a crowd-
surfing the web for an answer to why I'm still single-
handedly the handsomest man in my car currently.

It's the cloth in my empty passenger seat
soaking up the air of my A/C heat
and the scent of the soil spilt from the succulent I was given at a wedding last fall
and now I don't know if my trunk will ever smell clean at all

But I'll let this night be interstellar
I'll take a bath in the Big Dipper and write you a letter about Orion's Belt
or how I miss the stars sparkling in your eyes making contact with the E.T. in me.

Phone me home, darling.
I'm lost at sea.

-W.J. Thompson

When you casually left from my life
I know it’s cliché but it felt like a knife
I never expected to lose you
but I guess were through.

I can’t stop brushing my fingers on the old pages
it’s been ages since we last spoke
my eyes devour the written words of our history
how you left me still seems a mystery
your leaving took its toll
it left a void, a hole.

When you casually left from my life
I knew it was the right thing
but im pulling myself on this string.
Pretending its not happening
I never expected to lose you
but I guess our love wasn’t true.

I know I need to close the dusty pages I cling to
flick the new pages open and push through.
You seem happier while I still can’t sleep
I don’t cry or weep but I know my wound is **** deep.

It’s about time I had some good sleep
not tossing and turning and thinking
sinking in to my mind, unblinking

I know I need to write my next chapter
escape my abandoned captor.
Once I pick up my pen
I know Ill be almost new again
who knows what awaits
what the fates have in store
but I know i'll no longer be on the floor
thinking and rewinding our time together

I have an unsteady hand to open the new pages
It’s a slow and lonely journey, it may take ages
but I will write a next new chapter.
Where you have lost me but I will be free.

It was an atmosphere.
It was an atmosphere.
It was oxygen mixed with southern fog,
Southpaw gloves tied in sailor knots,
Waves of golden grains in ocean wind,
The rolling hills behind property lines.

It was the question you asked,
It was the question you asked,
Not with words but in the way you breathed against the window glass,
While I leaned against your Corolla,
And we sang under the overpass.

It was graffiti,
It was graffiti.
It was the cavernous concrete cats with purple
hair and acid wash jean jackets,
Melting the light of their city's street lamps into the obsidian void of moistened pavement.

It was the way the reverb spread the major 7th across the sky with burnt orange cascading into the violet of the minor 9th which reminds me of crickets and summer nights (and violins and cellos and midwestern jazz bars), and how bar chords are a guitarists way of flipping off a crowd,
Surfing the web for an answer to why I'm still single-
handedly the handsomest man in my car currently.

It's the cloth in my empty passenger seat,
soaking up the air of my A/C heat.
And the scent of the soil spilt from the succulent I was given at a wedding last fall,
And now I don't know if my trunk will ever smell clean at all.
It was how my energy dripped away into the floods of San Jose,
And how her eyes began to sink into her iPhone 7's screen.
It's in how I long for prolonged eye contact,
It's in how close the answer is but never slips,
I'm not interested in the electric work of fingertips,
I'm interested in connection.

Old soul, your old eyes
those crows feet I used to sit and count
1, 2, 3, how many were there again?
I'm starting to forget;
The laugh, the voice,
the smell of your day old hair.
The desperation in your feet at night.
But that smile, I'll never forget.
The way you smiled at me,
one day, someday
I hope your smile fades like the rest.

i feel like the second *** of coffee that you brewed thinking you wanted more, however you quickly changed your mind about ever liking the taste in the first place.