"engagement" poems
In a world without technology,
can you imagine how it would be?
To not have any lights.
We'll probably stay home at night.
In a world without technology,
we'll lose forms of connectivity.
We'll not have wifi or 3G,
distance will be as it should be.
However, without technology,
We won't have people far away,
because we can only walk on foot.
Most will live at home for good.
Without technology,
perhaps there'll be more sincerity,
where more people would be seen,
not looking at their phone screens.
Instead they'll stop and listen,
giving undivided attention,
to the people by their side.
Perhaps without technology,
we would have to do things manually.
Life may be tough physically.
But with technology,
is our life really that easy?
Is the world really as it should be?
Are people living in harmony?
Or is there more strife?
More people losing their lives?
Or is there more pain,
more people dying in vain?
What about pollution?
Isn't it part of our contribution?
All the fuels and carbon,
it'll soon bring us to extinction.
Our earth today is now diseased,
life on earth is not at peace.
We can deny all this,
And this is the utter irony,
while it gives us mass connection,
It reduces engagement,
attention and perhaps even compassion.
"Across the globe, millions reported dying",
ends up being desensitizing.
Technology's connectivity,
leaves us more detached than we should be.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC
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Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 5:02 AM UTC
My baby moves in jumps and flutters inside me,
like the barn swallows that make nests
of dirt and twigs outside the restaurant.
Yesterday they disappeared
and I learned that a maintenance man came and hosed them down.
Tragic, he said.
But necessary.
Too much bird ****
When I got pregnant
it felt like waking up at the top of a roller coaster.
And then an engagement.
Somehow
this is how my life is going
and somehow it does not feel like cliche.
Ask as many what-ifs as you want
but there is just a single trajectory.
Even though you have to fall asleep one day
before waking in the next.
Moving through concentric circles and trying to find the center.
Biology is happening
in a part of me that I am still getting to know.
Kaleidoscoping.
She was once the size of a grape
but now I read she can blink her eyelids.
She is also not like the barn swallows.
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 7:00 PM UTC
Beautiful summer day. You know you're gonna die
that's why you know no joy
unless religion, tv, stories, sports matter.
For men like us dying's easy, it's living that's hard.
And since dying's much like living, that's hard too.
There's some contentment in letting community decide
your place in it. A good day to die, the Apaches say.
Can't stop the quince from blossoming
or my sons from smoking, speeding.
The best that can be done or said's a blessing.
Less tv, less guessing about the effects of your anger
unless you want to be an angry man forever.
Becoming knowledgeable is the best defense
against your insignificance. OK about being alone.
Alive, almost sure of it. Whether I'm a visitor
to my life or the actual owner.
Mature poets steal, most are masturbators.
There are a million poets, I'm poet #500K.
Plenty of mysteries, infinite philosophies,
prayers, laws and unwritten rules.
That's why we go to school, life's complicated.
All I do not know: ATP, probabilities,
the glorious revolution, meiosis and mitosis
and all I'll never see, the bottom of the ocean,
the palm at the end of the mind, a wolverine.
Forget-me-not, is that all I want?
To get lucky, you gotta be careful first.
To be great, you gotta be willing to sound BAD.
In last night’s movie, a young writer
and an older, married with children French woman
fall in love. They did not meet during a village massacre
and money is no object, Manhattan.
But after everything has happened
she cannot leave her children, not even for love,
because of love, the love that brooks no serendipity.
In the subsequent late night movie, a wealthy
altruistic doctor arranges for the ******
of his neurotic concubine. His guilt
provides us with an opportunity to consider
the concepts of faith and forgiveness,
that all will be well in the end
after a period of meaningless suffering.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC
A is for Alpha
B is for Barbie
C is for Couple
D is for Destiny
E is for Engagement
F is for Fancy
G is for Gullible
H is for Happy
I is for Illusion
J is for Jealous
K is for Kingdom
L is for Lonely
M is for Mistress
N is for Nagging
O is for Often
P is for Pregnant
Q is for Question
R is for Rejecting
S is for Suicide
T is for Traumatize
U is for Understand
V is for Vaguely
W is for Whisky
X is for Xanax
Y is for Yesterday
Z is for Zombie.
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 3:07 AM UTC
***Crossing the room in slow motion
She watches his muscles move in the moonlight
Oh how they glisten in anticipation
Sit my pet, in a whisper
At her feet he waits with bated breath
So pleased at his obedience
Proceed
Such a simple command
He inches closer
His eagerness evident in his silence
In his omission of a proper response
An outfaced palm and he stops short
Sitting back on his feet, hands in lap, eyes to the floor
I'm sorry Ma'am, he says
That is evident by his failure to respond
He knows what is coming
Grabbing the back of his hair she forces his eyes to hers
Position, she says disgustedly
She leans back in the armchair as he pulls her hips to the edge
He lifts one leg and gently places it over the arm
Then he positions the other in the same manner
Sitting back on his feet, facing the floor
His arousal is evident, as is his moist anticipation
Respire.
The word is grunted through gritted teeth
He leans into heaven
Hovering an inch away
Slow deep breaths
He breathes in her essence wanting nothing more
Than to bridge the gap with his tongue
White satin and peekaboo lace
She runs down the rules of his punishment
Will you touch the Goddess
No Ma'am
Will you drool on the Goddess
No Ma'am
Will you move without permission
No Ma'am
How long will you hold your position
As long as my Goddess sees fit...Ma'am
Good boy
His breath is slow, deliberate, and heavy
The heat of it permeates the thin fabric
She runs her hand over the object of desire
Accentuating the outlines of what lies beneath
An accidental whimper
Silence!
A gruff command
Followed implicitly
In a slow and graceful motion
A hand slips under the fabric
Opening her flower releasing a hint of nectar
The scent grows exponentially upon the unfurling of petals
A glistening finger touches him just above his lip
Is that what you want?
It's a rhetorical question
Yes please
What will you do to get it
Such a simple question with but one answer
Anything you please, Goddess
Stick out your tongue
He does so in silence, careful that he does not touch her
She uses his wet flesh to wipe her finger clean
Closer she whispers
Now, within a half inch he breathes her in deeply
Mesmerized by the dewy goodness held behind the smooth satin
Watching desire grow in painfully slow motion
He blows out on the growing dampness
As he waits for her next command***
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
I caught you staring
at me,
you looked away,
and pulled
your sly
little smile.
I've been warned,
from the very first day,
to stay away.
But like our first
impression,
you're hard to forget.
You caught me staring
at you,
and i didn't look away.
You have my attention,
a forbidden engagement.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
Tar-dark world. The defining color is black, the inky night of her nocturnal hunts and the deep, bottomless dark of her alien retreat.
A watcher of men, she is everything and nothing. She might be too much of something, or too little of something else. Time will sort out the particulars.
There are no simple entry points – she demands engagement, and to be taken as a whole. Her discomfort is over her own allure, her undisturbed surface. It’s more about intuition and gesture than dialogue. They remain as echoes. They’ve made her beautiful in a real way, with hips and blemishes and dimples in her skin.
The imprint of the lives she begins to grapple with as her time on Earth extends, leads her to stop seeing herself as a mere conduit for her mission, and to start developing a sense of subjectivity.
Her life force is overlapping, shaping itself into a pattern of rings that simultaneously suggests a birth canal dilating, the stages of a rocket separating, and a lunar eclipse as seen through a telescope’s lens.
She's a life-form you can’t quite understand, but it’s carrying on relentlessly, like a beehive, moving backward through the constellations at first approach.
Feb 23, 2025
Feb 23, 2025 at 2:06 PM UTC
This poem casts a line from insomnia to morning
On the wind of a prayer that whatever bites, holds on.
See I have counted eleven score and ten,
with rainbow like curves of my neck -
contemptuous beasts leaping in formation
each bleating out a preach of vague platitudes;
A narrative for the night sky.
My hands clamour at keys for escape
until I tumble headfirst into a web so vast
it has ensnared the whole world wide -
millennials are living in-ter-net over in-the-world;
a new ultraviolence against humanity.
I beat my words into the screen until it breaks;
shattering scarlet emoticons like confetti
pouring over language as if it were a compliment.
My mind massages shapeless polypous thoughts
like tight constricted muscles aching for release.
3am casts these philosophies into horses,
whipping them into shape and speed
before the eyes of this statuesque ******
This anxious wakefulness begs my manic self to dance;
suggestively ********* tickets to ride like cleavage.
Sleep is fast becoming a neglected former engagement;
as my mind trips over fallen heroes
wades through my favourite mistakes
in a wonderland unfolding faster than I can fall
while the world beyond my window remains dark.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
(Part 1, The Engagement)
Draw blood, draw blood for me.
Not with a crayon, do it with a knife.
Show me that you mean it, you need me in your life.
Tell me that you love me and need me always near.
Surrender all suggestion, your purpose and your fear.
(Part 2, The Controller)
Why, that's a lovely dress but why you wear it here?
I'm sitting with friends, we're trying to have a beer.
You make me ******* mental and I know, you know!
Now ring a ******* taxi, get in it and just go!
(Part 3, The Victim)
Hey baby baby, I missed you so tonight.
You know how I hate it when we
fight.
You don't know why you make me mad
and then you'll cry like I've done
bad.
You need to work out what you
want
but don't dare tell me that we're through.
I haven't done a single thing and all
this **** is down to you.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 1:49 PM UTC
Strapless and lace
That's what I thought it'd be
It wasn't just a dream
I really thought that was me
With the done up hair
With a bouquet of roses
I thought that was me.
White picket fences
Children in the yard
Cooking breakfast and dinner
For all of us, three
With that picture perfect life
I thought that was me.
But, forget about that
I remind you of the wedding dress
That I won't be able to wear
Because it has your name on it
The wedding dress
The engagement that could never be salvaged
Not that I want it...anymore
It's just a pity
That poor wedding dress
Will never be worn
Because it's meant for me
But, still has your name on it.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
The whole concept
of adulthood
is one that seems to
trespass
from the ever-anticipated world
of the theoretical,
just to barge into your life
one night
like an uninvited drunken friend.
It will never really “hit you,”
but it’ll come **** close
the first time your aunt
offers you a glass of wine
as she and your mother
gossip frankly about
your father’s mistress—
you sip on cheap Chardonnay
and pretend to be used to the taste,
as they talk with
a middle-aged bitterness
of the man you were raised
to believe was too virtuous
to be in debt for some glitzy
engagement ring that he
bought to restart his life
with a woman he left your mother for
shortly after the pandemonium
of a guiltless affair.
The man
whose brutishness
you were told to overlook, cradling
the sparse memories
of when he’d tuck you
too tightly into bed, or
when he’d tell you that he loved you
even though half the time
you really didn’t believe him—
The man whose love confused you,
whose clumsy attempts
of fatherhood
kept the heart of a young girl
perpetually guarded
by a cautious skepticism—
The man who brought you into
a world he found absurd
as carelessly
as he raised you to face it,
torn apart
like every illusion that makes a child,
the ashes of which
that slip through your fingers
inevitably declare you
another bitter adult.
More wine will reveal
that your beloved father
is a controlling ******
and his relationship
with that *****
the whole family hates
only appears to be functioning
because she lets him have
all the control
he couldn’t exert on your mother,
even though you’ve had dinner
with the two of them a couple of times
and if you had met her
under any other circumstance (though
you’d feel like a traitor
if you said it aloud)
you wouldn’t think
she was all that bad.
In red, declarative letters
I want to write to any children I may ever bear
into this bittersweet game of ********
we play that we’ve since called ‘life,’
that when they first gaze with awe
at the unattainable grace
with which every grown-up seems to navigate
the world they created,
with all the pain of tax-paying and womanhood,
I want to scream
that we don’t know what the hell we’re doing either
and if at any point I try to convince you otherwise
you should tell your mother
that she’s full of ****
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
Inertia the process of doing nothing
Contradiction the art of jumping intellectual rope
Intellectualism the active engagement in educated debate
Spinning the result of which is dizziness
Dizziness a state of uncertainty
Debating the conversational to and fro
Art is conversation nothing more
Conversation a non productive but necessary social engagement
Formal education
Relative information specificity
Consider the ****** lilies
Consideration Debate Intelligence Conversation Inertia
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 8:03 AM UTC
I hate love songs.
It's just a sappy little tune of someone else's expectations.
I expect certain things for my life
But they'll never be what is written in a song
Love songs are like movies.
People write songs and movies about people living happily after ever.
Well that's completely false.
Because no one lives happily ever after.
We watch these movies and listen to these songs and build up our own expectations
Only to be let down when we realize that this is reality
We think "Oh I want a love like that."
When really, there's no such thing as true love.
Right?
I don't know.
That's kinda how I think of it.
Love songs ****
Because we latch onto what that person is saying, hoping we're gonna find that someday
But look at how hopeless we are
I'm so hopeless
I don't know what to think about love
There's so many degrees of love
Finding that true person who just happens to know everything about you
And likes it.
And you like all those things about them
But why?
Everybody's all like "love is such an amazing thing."
Like there's no faults in it
Like people don't cheat on each other
And people don't break up with each other for no reason
Like there's no back-stabbing
Like it doesn't ever fall apart because you have the glue to hold it together
But what's the point of love when there's so many faults that come with it
Let's face it
Everybody throws the word "love" around like it's a baseball
"I love you" "I love you too"
Bull.
Because then it ends and it's like "Oh but I thought you were in love?"
I wonder if love lasts forever.
I mean nothing lasts forever
I wonder if you can stay in love with the same person forever
I mean how's that possible?
Don't you get sick of looking at that person?
Don't you ever feel like being with someone else
I don't know. Maybe I'm saying this because I've never experienced love
With anyone special
Just meaningless relationships
From my youth that I knew would never last
Then what was the point of being with that person
Fun?
It ***** to have a hopeless crush that you know will never happen
But maybe it never happens because you DON'T believe
I don't know.
People should find that one person
Everybody has a God given right to find love
They need to find it the right way
People have one night stands with random strangers
How can you honestly make love to someone and feel something called "love" to someone you just met?
Like how?
You shouldn't give yourself to someone you don't know
In my opinion, you shouldn't give yourself to anyone unless you know you're gonna spend the rest of your life with that person
And I'm not just saying that because I'm a Christian
I wasn't planning on giving myself to anyone before I was married, before I found God
Sure, that's a part of it
Because *** before marriage is a sin
But I didn't have an expectation of having *** with anyone before I was married
And the only way to know if you'll spend, "forever", "eternity"
With that person is not when you put the engagement ring on
But the wedding ring
Because an engagement ring means nothing
It's just an announcement that you're planning on a future
It's nothing set in stone
People might say, "Yeah but you can always get divorced."
When I get married, that's not an option.
Because why would I throw something away that I know can hopefully be fixed?
People might say, "How can I not have *** in this relationship?"
It's easy.
Don't.
Love is so fake.
And yet, so real.
I have love songs
But listen to them all the time because I build up that expectation
But let's face it
We don't always get the fairytale we want
I hate love songs for one reason
You expect so much in your future
You're waiting for that prince to come save you
But come on.
That's fake.
I hate love songs.
I hate love movies.
I hate love.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC
I
I stole my brother’s car and drove to Phoenix in the dark.
The blue-green glow of dashboard gauges, the biting scent
of roadkill and desert marigolds. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Insects slapping the windshield, incipient rain.
Keep driving. Drive until the sun blooms.
II
Some days were more dire than others. CCTV footage confirms
I pawned a shotgun, a Gibson guitar, and my wife’s engagement
ring at the pawnshop next to Fatty’s Tattoo parlor on MLK Boulevard.
The typographically accurate Declaration of Independence
inscribed on my back also confirms this.
III
I ran the tilt-a-whirl at the Ashtabula county fair,
fattening up on fried Oreos and elephant ears,
twisting behind tent ***** with a one-armed
contortionist with strawberry-blonde hair.
IV
I derailed in a dive bar.
V
I disappeared in a city lit by lavender streetlights,
where buildings blotted out the stars and the traffic
signals kept perfect time. I picked through trash bins.
I paid for love with drugstore wine.
VI
I closed my eyes on a mountain road.
The sheriff extracted me from a ****** snowbank.
VII
I holed up for weeks in an oceanfront motel, dazed
by the roar of the breakers. Each morning I drew
back the curtains and lost myself
in the crisscrossing patterns of whitecaps,
the synchronous flight of sanderlings above the dunes.
I dreamed of dead horseshoe ***** rolling in with the tide.
VIII
The moon over my shoulder
tightened into focus like a spotlight.
One night the barking dogs undid me.
I caved in to the candor of a naked mattress.
I grew my beard, an insomniac in a jail cell,
clinging to bars the color of a morning dove.
IX
I coveted the house keys of strangers.
X
I opened and closed many doors.
I sang into the mouths of storm drains.
I stepped out of many rooms only
to find myself in the room I just left.
Despite all my leaving, I remained.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
Suddenly it’s broken.
My beloved
lies below my hands.
Aquamarine, amethyst and citrine.
My stones
now unstrung.
You were my ‘promise ring’
my ‘engagement jewelry’.
You gave it to me
and I promised to return to you
Santorini.
Then it shifts:
I am pleading
in your aquamarine waters.
“Forgive me”
Pleading to your citrine hills.
“I promise”
Pleading, pleading
while your amethyst moon watches,
because it is always watching.
Apr 28, 2011
Apr 28, 2011 at 9:47 AM UTC
Early childhood milestones **** by,
first tooth,
first words,
first steps,
first days at school.
Teenage milestones are anticipated,
first date,
first dance,
first kiss.
Adult milestones arrive,
first job,
twenty-first,
engagement,
marriage,
offspring.
Middle age milestones are measured
by milestones of offspring.
Through latter years one yearns for
milestones that have been.
At the end of one's years
one waits for the inevitable,
ultimate, milestone of
death and rebirth
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
You'll be initiated,
when you are ready.
Life knows,
and the initiation rites
are waiting.
Where you are holding,
you will be broken.
Where you've lost heart,
you will be shaken.
Where you are careless,
you'll meet your neglect.
What you are averse to,
will be total and stark.
What you are attached to,
will be pried from your grips.
Ignorance will be
wrought with vision,
a burning,
to make you see.
You are loved so much
that you will be engulfed in
the flames
of loves fire,
in order to
ignite your own
hearts flames,
and fulfill loves destiny.
Alchemical change will ensue,
destroying you,
to make way for
new love.
Licked by some Hellish ordeal,
Ambivalence gives way to Engagement,
Rage engenders Clarity,
Anxiety becomes Inspiration,
Apathy roars into Feeling,
Melancholy imbues it's Depth,
Licked by some Heavenly delight.
Phoenixed, you'll fly,
the hero of your own journey,
wielding revelatory fire,
with great Wisdom
and Compassion,
a Gestalt,
anew.
The circle closes,
it is a spiral,
to the beginning,
of another
Circle.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
The body remembers, though it has been
four years since the summer you shattered your
knee but still limped out across the continent
to Boston to see him you idiot and
this is the fourth summer you've placed between
yourself and the last pin and the last *****
your body remembers, though in the
torturous lengthening of fused and toughened tissues
the bad leg is finally catching up,
and the scar with its ten numb inches of
puckered track has come to fade bone white
against your skin
but it’s still stored somewhere
in your sockets or cells and when you fall off your bike you still cry
Though you’re not really hurt your body remembers
So that when you’re confronted with their engagement photo
(you didn’t even know he was seeing anyone)
the darkened garden at the Plymouth Plantation
begins to bloom up around you before you can stop it
like a seizure or a vision, and you’re there again
trespassing after him through shadowy pines
and night-damp atlantic air
to where the white chairs encircle the altar.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
You become my words,
When I became speechless.
You became my sunshine,
When I drowned in darkness.
You became my inspiration,
To wake up and live my dream.
You became my reason,
My pride, treasure and esteem.
You my darling, became my Kanna,
My strength, love and best friend.
You and I are now not two, but one,
Together, forever, beyond every end.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC
I am not some street cowboy punk
i am a quiet sweet rampant drunk
i play the spoons with the air of a saint
i have a tongue that can swallow paint
sour and acrid, the tone of my voice
i have never left without a choice
punched back sideways
even more today than tomorrow
for your heart i will bed, steal or borrow
Superman don't have ***** on me
don't need no wings now i am free
saving the restless, curing the weak
you can laugh at me when i dance like a freak.
I will kiss you when i drink too much wine
when i am restless and hungry you will be mine
I will do nothing when you are nothing to me
i will drive you crazy with all you can be
no more talkin no more of that ****
i'll hold you apart, break you bit by bit
if you're too polite i'll bite my tongue
i'll whip you and shake you, then i'm done.
carefree to be careless, shareless boy talk
tell me to go and i will surely walk
don't ask me to be kissed or hold my hand
i am not that girl that you left unplanned
i am a midnight demon on ferocious terms
i grasp you and hold you tight and firm.
I am not lost, or fragile or broken bound
i am not looking for someone to make a sound
i am no paige boy scarlet harlot wild child thing
i am not yours, can't you hear your telephone ring?
I am a sordid freak of gigantic endeavours
i will solder your heart regardless of your tremors
i am torturous and painful and weak to the bone
i am the mightiest fallen, can you not see my throne?
i have a **** me, buck me, tie-me-tight gaze
if i look at you slowly, be patient but don't wait
i want everything and all and i want it now
i am no gleaming bronze statue know-all-know-how
i am surely what you ever thought you knew
i am surely what you never thought when i met you
i am free to please anyone at night
i am free to sit and cry by candlelight
alright now, oh baby its all right now
**** me gently and i'll show you how
to be nothing more than anything is something i suppose
but i really can't tell for the state of your clothes
you dress me up slightly more than your vision
i've never met a person with such succint precision
and well here i go, superbly astute and blunt
never did i see such a spectacular *** ****
and well that is really the way that i go
i fly here, there, everywhere i flow
i am not some pretty naieve little thing
i am a mess of entirety with 2 engagement rings
i'm living with despondence and its ******* me off
holy **** batman i hear you cough
come see me, come stay a while
come see me, come see me, and i will **** you in style
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
Maroon, crimson, dark red.
Whatever color you want to call it,
it sits balled in front of me on my old bedside table.
You want it back because it has "sentimental value,"
your brother bought it for you before he went off to the military
and it cost him seventy dollars.
On the top shelf of my current bedside table,
at the back, hidden from light, from sight,
sits the ring you bought me that cost over two hundred dollars,
the ring that signified a promise that you swore you'd keep.
You asked if it bothered me to have, if it hurt,
and I told you that it didn't.
You said that I should keep it.
You say the hoodie has sentimental value but I sit here with a ring of mineral,
real diamond centered on its band,
coveted only by the box you presented it to me in when you tricked me into finding it,
when you told me you'd love me until the day that you died.
The ring that later represented not only our connection,
our relationship,
but our engagement that I hear you're denying ever happened.
You did not ask for the ring back.
You never said that it held "sentimental value,"
but your seventy dollar hoodie from the brother who has given you
fear to be touched by unprecedented betrayal,
does.
I cannot help but wonder how you are not bothered by an item that once held such meaning
no longer being in your possession.
I cannot help but wonder why you have not mentioned it.
I cannot help but wonder if you hear a certain artist in the car, or with friends,
and think of me but do not say anything in fear of making a scene.
I cannot help but wonder if you are still in love with me.
If a hoodie can hold such sentimental value and the ring you proposed to me with does not,
did the words
" I love you "
mean less than
" I'm trying to get over you "
when you said them within a week of one another?
Am I never meant to know?
I fear I am not privileged enough to know whether or not these words,
these things that have passed through my life were ever meant to mean
more than a cool March night of lying on the roof of your car,
staring at the constellations and wishing to be with you forever
when I saw the shooting stars.
I fear that I am no longer privileged to say no one knows you like I do.
You said you wanted your hoodie back,
and I told you that I found it.
You said you'd find my clothes as soon as possible
and I told you to take your time.
I told you not to push yourself too hard.
I didn't want you to hurt anymore.
I don't know what to do with your hoodie, though.
It's moving from my bed,
to dresser,
to bedside table
to bed
to dresser
to bedside table
and I wake and see it and think of you
and I wonder if I should put it on when I go for a walk
because it's warmer than anything else that I own,
but I don't,
because it has sentimental value.
I do not.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC