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This mushy couch,
I’m clammy and warm -
Crying about the wrong dad being taken
When suddenly
The therapist turns,
A knock is heard,
Many - rather.
A ladder appears
And a dude with a belt
Far too big for his stature.
He climbs and cleans
And makes me laugh,
And my asthmatic therapist
Takes us on a walk instead.
Uphill! It is humid
We both pant and sweat
I haven’t ditched the juul
The way the rug was pulled
Back we go
To the mushy couch
With the clammy pillow
This one *****, but I need the memory to exist that in the midst of this therapy appointment, I was temporarily locked in on some stranger in baggy jeans from the waist down.
He didn’t get a percentage of my copay, but he should for giving me the giggles
And you chose me
All of me
As I am
And I tried my best
To stay asleep
And soak it in
But the alarm always goes off
At an inopportune time
I guess you’ve worked your way back into my subconscious - though I did it for you.
Enter and grab a menu,
Handmade bowls line up the walls.
I scan the room for seating,
Very cute, but rather small.
Take a seat after a man
Who left The Times for me.
Sports and Stocks,
The pages stained,
It could be eggs - or tea.
S&P 500 has dropped,
The election roaring in.
I glance around at smiling faces,
The community for the day begins.
Love fills the space, hints of criticism,
Peach Pit playing under the air.
Polarity between the preppy woman,
And the men with unkempt hair.
My mocha comes, sandwich aside
Foam pulled to the shape of a heart
Conversations engulf my brain,
None of which I am a part.
A new bulk store going up downtown,
UAE cutting back on gas -
A glass of water poured from a keg,
Wooden seat flattening my ***.
A couple near the bathroom,
Swirling and kissing in an embrace.
If you were here, I’d imagine a furrow
On your beautiful, focused face.
Last I was here with company
Who would not lead the way -

I think I much prefer
That I came here alone today.
You pull me in
And grab my face

You plant a kiss
It tastes like pennies
For many hours,
Two or three,
Pages flipped by too dry fingers.
Lick the thumb,
Flip and balance on my chest,
Neck angled oddly.
Training and straining
My scarred retinas
Begging for some timely fatigue
Is nothing tangible,
But to be enjoyed
And dissected,
Experienced by some
You’d love,
And hate,
But nonetheless
Through loving me
They’ll know parts of you -
Which is beautiful,
And sad,
Like a muddied Monet
With gorgeous ponds and
Lillies,
Yet the water is ice cold
Waiting endlessly for the plunge.
i struggle to not use
i in every poem
i write and at some point
i feel like it throws the perspective off. but
i also think maybe it feels right to
you, reader.
i'd love some insight, or something else to think about, but
i also think if
i don't let some steam out, the campbell's can that is
my brain will start to overheat like the hershey's
i used to leave in the center console of
my honda accord, but it wouldn't take long to solidify if
i shoved them in the air vents bc for some reason
i had a ton of fun sized bars? and if
i think hard enough,
i believe my first bf stole a giant bag of halloween candy and
i, the bonnie to my clyde, ate that **** for months. now all
i have are some stale tootsie pops, but luckily
i didn't get any trick-or-treaters this year.
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