it's saturday, and
i have miniscule ambitions and no plans.
standing next to you, in my imagination
my mind has felt flat for months like
it’s stuck on one emotion, hungry
trying to find the question to the problem.
driving through old trees
i return again to still water―
to where we planted seeds and waited.
i think of that sad, dark little apartment on the hill
the piles and piles of yellow legal pads
strewn around my room. all of them stuffed
ideas curling at the edges.
i reconsider all advice on taking a small thing too seriously.
being here now
a part of one of your parties i feel
little and unnecessary.
i have words for you, safe-saved for later.
i have words for everyone not in this room.
of course it’s too hot tonight and
everyone got all dressed up.
you're in white and talk to everyone.
this is where i will begin to crack:
down my hairline
the middle of me.