“I’m always knives-out,
a chain of razors folded
behind each gesture.
You who loves me: are you
paper? Or plywood? Or stone?”
–Christopher Morgan

I never write about blossoming but
I’m seeing inflorescence in
dejection,
my unpolished toes at the edge of the kitchen,
an unwashed bowl of almond butter
next to my tea,
empty half of a house,
my patient sponsor and the
tail end of my
frantic texts    public mania;
an affinity for
inscripting every feeling
somewhere permanent and
obvious and
flagrantly.
I could have been
sitting still,
saving face,
explaining through private sessions,
watercolor, grace or
long sleep.
she mentions  doing the
dishes         she mentions
breathing       she mentions
just let it be.

I see a bud in the daffodils you left me,
a water filled horizon that distorts my perception
of what “leverage” really means,
and the big picture
obscured by my choice of lighting–
all fluorescent,
           it’s cheaper
blinding              my censorious self-portraits,
overdone with explanation and
cyclic editing,
ornate,
constant litter in the place,
and now I have some dead petals
to sweep.

it used to be us:
two dirty bowls
but saw clearly.
we were soaked in
soft lighting and I held
your gaze,
your torso,
your incogitant rage
that I managed between fits of
self soothing and pleading,
placating you.
mouthful of bitten tongue,
some little good timing,
ready for
         hi there
some little soft haunting.
with you it’s always
the same:

a toothy smile,
walk for miles,
fingers crossed for some
little soft revenge.
yes yes,
I think about you
every now
and then.

3.

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