sunday may two
anticipate: i’ll spare you drunk calls; because it’s late and i’m not. it is april
storming, loud, shattering like my thoughts, violent like my missing. my
bed looks onto the alley now, illuminated brick for moments before rolling
thunders of tired. why can’t i relax? even among friends, everything i say
sounds wrong, the everything that’s already been filtered fourteen times
before it’s said. i’m going to let the rain put me to sleep now.
are you happy? she asked me. at a party on a porch of their new house
rehabbed in love and five years and what i someday hope for, and i can’t lie
to her, even though i don’t know her well enough not to lie,
(but i know her well enough that i don't care) and i tell her,
no, i’m not. she asks me what i want in life, and i tell her, to be happy.
it seems a circle, like i’m chasing my tail, getting dizzier and
dizzier and losing ground, and if not ground, then faith.
she tells me how happy she is
tells me it’s becuase she doesn’t want a relationship right now
because she’s not desperate // and my eyebrow cocks like a trigger
and i tell myself i don’t know her well enough to go off
instead i correct her. i say, i’m depressed, not desperate. there’s a difference.
later, she’s drunk still presumptuous and trying to make me dance again
(why do people do that?)
she pushes chocolate strawberries at me and takes pictures
she can barely stand up and has her head on my shoulder
she’s slurring advice on happiness before she's on her way to the bathroom
(or the bushes, she got sick in both that night)
and i want to correct myself, and tell her if that’s happy, happiness may actually not be what i want.
storming, loud, shattering like my thoughts, violent like my missing. my
bed looks onto the alley now, illuminated brick for moments before rolling
thunders of tired. why can’t i relax? even among friends, everything i say
sounds wrong, the everything that’s already been filtered fourteen times
before it’s said. i’m going to let the rain put me to sleep now.
are you happy? she asked me. at a party on a porch of their new house
rehabbed in love and five years and what i someday hope for, and i can’t lie
to her, even though i don’t know her well enough not to lie,
(but i know her well enough that i don't care) and i tell her,
no, i’m not. she asks me what i want in life, and i tell her, to be happy.
it seems a circle, like i’m chasing my tail, getting dizzier and
dizzier and losing ground, and if not ground, then faith.
she tells me how happy she is
tells me it’s becuase she doesn’t want a relationship right now
because she’s not desperate // and my eyebrow cocks like a trigger
and i tell myself i don’t know her well enough to go off
instead i correct her. i say, i’m depressed, not desperate. there’s a difference.
later, she’s drunk still presumptuous and trying to make me dance again
(why do people do that?)
she pushes chocolate strawberries at me and takes pictures
she can barely stand up and has her head on my shoulder
she’s slurring advice on happiness before she's on her way to the bathroom
(or the bushes, she got sick in both that night)
and i want to correct myself, and tell her if that’s happy, happiness may actually not be what i want.