and while it’s hard,
i can’t find malice for someone that my younger self used to love
she would be too disappointed in me if i did

Love is the river
of life, but a flood will hurt
and a drought will ****.

I like love that is lost…
but sometimes found years later
Love that wasn’t meant to happen
Love that only lasts a few hours or
until the sun comes up
Love where we barely hug

If you take the chance
to look up, you’ll see that the
clouds are still moving

I flipped all my cigarettes over:
lucky is only lucky if you reap what you sow
I am a dog

The tap water isn’t cold enough, so bottled will have to do
The crickets and cicadas mock me for even having a mere thought of you
The cold sweat on my skin matches the love we used to feel
Shivering, damp, and innocent; can one say this was even real?

I deleted your
poems, now I only miss
the words I composed

And, yes, I have grown
into my skin but it is
still too ******* loose

Leave her, because she
will learn to love herself e-
-ven more without you

Being at peace with
yourself is stopping to feed
the feral pigeons

On a hot summer day the drone of a single plane flares the parched grass up into a familiar crackle,
often when the bugs and birds are too sore to sing.
There are dead corn beetles on the roof
and the wineberries are watching my every move.

The depth of their romantic inhibition
is cigarettes, coffee, and fleeting pda
on public transportation

Inconvenience is an American bliss;
They sit within the door’s armspan
She refused back surgery to avoid pain,
but winces at the ebb and flow of the train

Hacking, wheezing laughter,
littered with glittering profanities
Utterly, wholly American

I’ll get a tattoo
that I cannot reach and ask
you for some lotion