i miss you
or someone
being this (again)
wanting anyone
(not, necessarily, you)
a blue featherbed
cold down comforter
warm socks
hot chocolate
snowscapes
fireplace
cool fat pillow
radiator back


i'm afraid to say--i think i've forgotten how. i just hope you know. i just hope you know what i want to tell you but don't think i should. i hope you do, i think you might, and thats why i dont tell you. but if you don't know it, or want to hear it, you tell me. because i'll tell you. i'll tell you. i'm not ashamed and i won't lie. you just have to tell me to tell you.

But I find myself compelled.

My Last Night in Regents, E313B

these naked walls and filled boxes slay me
my room, my home, my heart is only a contract
expired

these barren shelves and plastic bags
allude to your memories, and all the memories
these talking picture frames of unforgotten faces
places and names I remember
some things I wish I could forget

i sorted my things and made a pile of you
but i have no box for it, no way to keep it separate from the crap
i am wearing worn and unfamiliar rings
silvers you did not know me in
i was only gold, if that, sometimes

the space is so much vaster
without a tv, a keyboard
and somehow cardboard boxes hang off the edge of my bed like a tidal wave
i feel taken away, close me in

a duster hangs in the balance
the dust hangs in the air, my sloppy fan
splashes the room with enough air to do very little
very little is done

but everything is over

I hate that my only response to anything anymore is in poetry or something like it. We are all the reasons I can't concentrate. What had I passed for this pourage? What a stew. My stomach turns over and over upon itself. Why can't I just be great like you? It felt like this afternoon sounded the smell of summer barbeques. I feel so young and so old at the same time, and am not sure to which to attribute my foolishness. I think for the first time I felt it, really felt it, like what was was to be and will. It's all already like a written poem: too late. This is a private sentence. I hate that all these words that I supposedly love are in fact all I have and that they amount to nothing. I am arcane but you know you always know and always knew just as I had. We must have felt that other people mattered anymore, when now all that matters is my desire to sleep. Dare I ask where you would be if I were gone? My memory always fails me. I remember the things that don't matter to everyone else. Why must they be the wrong things? I feel like you despised me all along; there was no point. I was pointless. I had no direction to turn. What's left of whatever we call my insides will be a shoebox, and it will be filled with you; I will not soon throw away those small pieces of paper, those things that I take for olimendadra. But what dusty old box is ever presentable again. There is no coding here. Only a flash of light, a walking haircut, an invisible, a hidden almost-a-man. You may thank me but I have apologies and thanks, neither of which are unsaid or appropriate. Thanks for letting me be little spoon. This isn't a response; no composition of mine could compare. My anaphora is only jumbled. I not for reasons outside myself question the cynicism possibly involved. There were few reasons outside myself and I'm sure that will always be the case. I try and imagine how or what everything was before this year and i draw a blank. The time I think I was supposed to spend alone was given to someone else. and then it happened again. and debatably again. I hate the thought of having ruined it all forever because your dad liked me and I liked that. Here's where I feel young and old at the same time. Here's where I seriously question myself, and seriously want to punch myself in the face for both reasons I question. Here's when that sounds seriously appealing. Now's when I know you wouldn't want that, and then I think that I know one half of you does. And that an increasing percentage of me each day does. Your three-week-old words still burn. I am all sentiments unfulfilled and offers not taken. I demand myself to remember something: you sent me a CD i still have because I didn't know enough John, and it was one of the coolest and most thoughtful things anyone has ever done for me. I seize now worse than ever before and I think something (else) is wrong with me, and in a way I sincerely hope there is.

I am so angry. and I have to go to sleep.