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.
Strolling along under the Brooklyn Bridge and it’s
Illuminated by the effervescent glow of Wall Street as the East River laps against the docks
The wind a whisper of winter’s return, but the chill a welcome guest
I can taste the crisp in the air, made bitter by the silence of your call
But all that matter is the lights, colored little orbs that outline the path to Brooklyn, my new home
And though it’s evening, it dawns on me…
I don’t even know your favorite color.
here is the thing…
you’re in my head, my heart, my soul
it hurts the marrow in my bones
and maybe it’s not you at all
rather the idea of it —
love at first laugh, I mean.
It got to be so bad, didn’t it?
All the anger and fights
fleeing, and the time I yelled at you
to get the fuck out of my car.
But I mostly just remember instead
the silent way the snow fell as we
on the nineteenth of December.
I lost myself in you, while you found yourself in her.
How many minutes, hours, days will it take to find a map
back to that place where life simply was—
when you were yet unknown?
I was half me then, before you came and wholed me up
but that’s still a half more than
the shell that you left behind.
when we were young we had
Nothing Left to Lose
another year older
now and the stakes are
raised, so you choose
lower the bar
lose all pretense
[I can still hear the trains out my window
From Hobart street to here in Nashville
I can still smell the pomegranates grow]
it’s reminiscence that keeps us alive.
How many of us think we’ve found our
life’s story in another, only to realize they were but a short chapter?
the night brings
life to the shadows —
sound to the spirits that
tiptoe through the halls
and there’s a ghost
here, I think with
to whisper about
on wind and creaking stair
echoing round the walls
me flick the switch, light blinding but the
ghost remains for
it’s not the house that’s haunted.