first tuesday of march
wasted paper,
ambiguous time.
words about drinking, love
and the south.
instruments i can’t play,
people i can’t start a conversation with.
enjoyable, loud,
buzzing in a night’s end.
an empty space
between sets,
between days,
between weekends without
alarm clocks.
but not without worries.
it’s ironic, in a way,
to listen to the blues –
to hear all about loneliness –
in a setting where everyone
is having fun.
where no one else
appears to be alone.
so i keep writing,
waiting for more music
from my newfound spot
at the bar.
i face outward,
as if to meekly suggest
that despite my silence, paper and pen,
i’m not antisocial.
Cope
palm on forehead,
fingers in hair.
breathing through my nose,
heavily.
eye lids closed,
left to fleeting visions
of smiles long past.
the lack of gentle touch
stands out most.
like the way you rest your arm
on your love’s leg without thinking.
like the way the gesture is returned
with a slight caress.
it’s too subtle to fully explain,
but too powerful to ever forget.
now removing my hand,
opening my eyes,
i still see what’s missing
more than what’s here.
Twenty Two And Counting
Emptiness distracts me
from words I don’t have.
I’m counting down the minutes now,
waiting, like I have been for so long.
At least the outcome is simple.
At least in this space
I don’t have to be afraid.
I wouldn’t notice imperfection,
I don’t know any better.
But I don’t want to be here.
I like stability,
but not necessarily calm.
I like passion,
by struggle or by love.
And that makes my life more complicated
than just my daily chores.
Like sitting here while my laundry finishes.
