Bath so hot I can’t get in
That album-game over to pretending to want to go out
It seems like everyone is writing poetry about the last days, about paranoia and
musings of what will come. I have run
out of milk and the grocery store is
business as usual, just a five minute
walk in melting snow.
For the most part, the notebooks filled with decade old scribbles, collecting dust in the closet of my childhood bedroom, are illegible. What can be deciphered of my highschool years are angst fueled rambles, longings for places I had never been and listless poems for women who may or may not have existed.
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The young woman in a black dress
with a skeleton on its front
is vibrant and oblivious
like a child playing with a skull,
dropping marbles in the sockets
I woke up this morning
with the sight and scent
of bouquets of red roses
assembled on my chest.
when someone
asks how I am
my mind goes
blank.