8:24 PM Edit This 0 Comments »
This shamble scramble life of mine is fraying at the edges. Worn-thin like a well-loved pair of jeans.

Do you remember the Tuesdays where we used to sit at the bar content in our own company? Now, look at us. Rummaging. Rambling. Trying to make sense of this tattered mockery of who-knows-what.

I'm not sure what I'm trying to get at or what I'm trying to say. These days I'm on watercolor thoughts. Everything is bright, bold, and flows so well together.

I want to throw my hands up and just chill out.

***
It's cold and wet out.
The snow hasn't melted
And a light breeze is slapping
my bare skin.

The door to my apartment building won't go.
I shove my key in again and jerk the knob,
but nothing happens.

I don't want to wake the neighbors
but I know I'm loud with all my fidgeting
Or maybe I'm just drunk and paranoid.

By now, I'm shivering.
New England winters are cold
even on the best
of evenings

(Much colder on the worst.)

Our evening had gone so
remarkably ambivalently.
I had wanted something,
anything to hold on to.

But you just drove away,
Leaving me alone
on my front stoop,
waiting for someone else
to let me in.




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