i spill some coffee
into a cup.
the filter mesh
is flawed

how can i possibly relive
the past few days?
and expect you to
understand?
my little thoughts,
my big emotions
my sense of loss
loss
loss
...
i can't fade away like this
and i haven't cried enough

no,
not nearly enough.

it looks as though
the only order i can
revive
is chronological

tuesday
the lesson is over.
((finally))
and my nostalgia has
gone
cold.
a splinter in time and nothing more
but i've deluded myself for
too long

other than that
my envy brews.
like black coffee tainted
with sweet sugar.

i wanted to tell you something;
((though i never did.))
you place
too much emphasis
on conversation,
and not enough
on silence.

wednesday
a day i always imagined
would be filled with
chaos.
how wrong i was

i superglued fifty cents in front of the office
and one dollar outside marisa's house

i curl up into my knees
and feel a little
melancholy
you don't know me
at all
but i want you to.

during those games they play
we duck undercover
and go backstage.
where we
see costumes and hoops and
fun unlike before
we linger and dance
and i remember that
we are still young.

it occurs to me
that all i do is think about you
what you think of me
what you're doing
why you won't even call me
why you act
like you don't care

perhaps you don't.
no, i don't think
you do

you have my past,
is that enough?
((but i want yours in return))

i walk home
with fairy wings
and everyone
averts their eyes
or else stares
hard
i get home
tired and
sad and
ridiculous.

thursday
walk down my
memory
i cry.
& so does the sky
but it contains itself
a little more
than i do.

i try to not hate you
you only make me
feel sadder
i've lost...
everything?

incense s_m^okes
in the bathroom.
advice from a man who
made me smile
a fragment all over these walls

walk down
the quadrangle
((it almost seems like the last))

frozen faces laugh like dying.
glad the sun stayed away.
a triangle under a tree
where my mind evokes
a careless memory

time in a church
wanting to do more
than just stare.

mystery
mystery
this makes me feel
little.
not here,
not in your place.

where did you put the graveyard?
i want to feel insignificant.
((i'm already there))

i rush through the pews
caught in your
excitement.
it is borrowed energy
and does not last
i leave my green bag
behind.

dinner at a club
the lights are grey and dull
the balloons are too bright
for a place like this.

odd moments where
everyone talks
and i stare
and i could swear
that this is just static;
this is not happening
this is not happening
this is not happening
this is not happening

we laugh and amble about.

i just want to
see you and tell you
how amazing you are
...
your words are so cheap
because you waste them
on everyone.

my 'au revoir' stretches and
swirls
i can't do this properly
((i just can't do this))
i tend to feel little
again and again
everyone watches
my inconsistency.

can sadness be solved
with a walk to your house?
i think it can.

we flee.
with ten balloons
red and yellow and white and blue and...
green?
against the darkness
they are enchanting times ten.

we stroll through this
place called 'the night'
and take the scariest route
we can find
yelling
lights.
sit on a couch
by the curb
twirl in the
middle of the street

we sit outside your house
((in the gutter))
and write
notes to you

no clue why we're here
and it's getting close
to midnight
the clouds are tinged orange,
the sky; never truly black.

it rains &
the balloons _fall
to the ground
you let down your hair
and dance.

you and i contemplate
being homeless
for the night
and in our delirium
this seems
rather fine.

my green socks are
soaked and my fingers are cold,
my hair is a halo of frizz.

the balloons try to escape
but they tango eternally.
their death seems
almost poignant by
the way they cling to
one another

we talk talk talk
making stories with our mouths

finally.
we are caught
thankfully, not by
your neighbours
but rather
by you.

you smile and ask
a question
i feel ridiculous and mutter
realise my feet are numb
stretch my arm out
and give you
my postcard.
on it i wrote;
this is the second prettiest postcard i own...

it's true you know.
but
the jig is up.

under the ceilings
we
apologise
and ramble
...

until you send us home.

"take care of yourself"
you say with a significant stare,
one you have given me
many times before.

"i shall."

i
kick off my shoes
and stand in the dark.