riptide

it was in that little black
Honda Fit, after ten hours in the car
on the highway in the rain
and the music was on shuffle
I was scared of dentists and the dark
I was scared of pretty girls and starting conversations
Oh, all my friends are turning green
You’re the magician’s assistant in their dreams
and I still get a lump in my throat when I
hear Vance Joy because those words were never wrong
you were my riptide, dragging me out to sea
as I fought, ceaselessly against the current
when I ought to have drowned in you.

it’s infinite

And this is my thought—

that I will die alone surrounded by cats
after a lifetime of watching as everyone around me is
enveloped in love and achievement
while I whither on the vine
a spinster, a hag, has-been who never really was.

So I’ve relived that sweltering June afternoon in Arlington Cemetery
a hundred times, maybe more
as we hiked the hill and saw Washington’s monument
eyes filled with tears, drenched in rain or sweat or both
and that day was hard but
filled with possibility
as I drove away from you, soonafter that city
sad, but confident thinking I’d never look back
… not once.

But I was 23 then, 25 now and in hindsight I know
when I drove away it was
without direction, speeding along
not bothering with maps
and here I am
floating in an infinite abyss.