My inner circle

I left the door open
wide,
allowing you
access to my inner circle,
and now I'm left
guessing,
as you light your
cigarette
with my bright red BIC.
This morning
was wrought with fatigue,
and, two cups
of black coffee later,
the afternoon caresses
my being,
gently.

Swans

There were swans
on the lake.
We thought
about feeding them
even though
the sign said not to.
They probably
weren't hungry
anyways,
and neither am I.
Summer will soon leave us,
waving goodbye with
ice cold winds
that carry
dead brown leaves
across the ground
and my heart.
And, I'll wonder
if the swans
are as cold as I am,
despite my scarf
and coat.

One thousand weed wackers

I breathed the forest
in late august.
It was heavy and sweet.
Today, I hear the buzzing
of a thousand weed wackers
outside of my window
as I eat carrot cake
from last night.
For the first time
in my life,
I truly feel
almost nothing.

Untitled

I remember
being here
years ago.
Flying back and forth.
Never stopped trying
to rotate
more than 180 degrees
on the swingset
and
for the first time
I had one of those moments,
when everything felt beautiful
and I loved it all
all at once.
I came here
to say goodbye.
I came here
to thank you!
When you sleep
think of me
and where I might be.
When I sleep
I'll think of you
and maybe smile
or laugh
or cry.
Promise me that
you'll keep your head
in the clouds.
Mine will still be there.

To who knows when

Look at the sky.
You can see almost
the whole thing.
It's wider than my eyes
but not as wide
as the love I have
somewhere
for something.
I'm looking at you .
You don't know I'm doing it.
You're beautiful
just because you're alive!
Isn't that enough?
I want to watch you
breathing.
I want to watch raindrops
falling.
I want to watch leaves
blowing.
I want to watch planes
flying
and wish I was on one
going somewhere other than here.
Here's to who knows when.

Hard times

We saw him
take a wrong turn somewhere,
driving
through heartbreaking,
loveless, summer.
He never turned back.
Audrey Horn is dead,
and I've realized
all too fast
that Isaac Brock
was right about
the good times;
they're killing me
too.

We're asking so many questions.
These are hard times.
For me,
these are hard times.

I wonder,
sometimes,
if you're there
waiting for me,
or is it just a silhouette,
a phantom,
that I see? standing
on that pedistal
as the world collapses away in all directions
and falls
into infinite blackness.
Either I have hopes
for something too great,
or the promises are empty.

We're asking so many questions.
These are hard times.
For me,
these are hard times.

A letter to my self

Self,
wherever you are now,
come back to me.
I remember times
when few words left my lips,
yet they resounded
with more meaning
than I could, today,
fit into the longest book.
I remember times
when I'd feel
the purest joy
simply because
I knew I was.
I remember times
when my sentience
was more vast than all the seas
and all the sky above them.
Self,
come back to me,
because I can no longer feel the world.