in love with the living

so dramatic and generic and generally
a disappointment all around.
head in the clouds, feet don’t touch the ground.
pretentious and superficial, more concerned about appearances
and photographs.
a new pen, an old pad of paper,
new to me, found on the ground,
filled with black ink
and too many possibilities for us to fathom.
but it never lasts…
extremities of the sweltering summer
and desolate winter eves spent
warming our toes by the fire.
we define the days in curious ways.
nature is a balancing act
in which our lives are all entrapped.
the same shade of lipstick so many years in a row.
back and forth and back again
about which way to live this life
or how to make these kernels grow
come spring time.
seeds of truth and seedy lies,
fictions and friendships and black mascara’d lashes
framing flighty hazel eyes.
sick of education and staying indoors.
increasingly boring, endlessly bored.
boys and books and bongs and battle wounds,
broken-in sneakers, breathing—
nothing beats a breakfast at bickford’s
at 11:32 on a friday night.
but nothing really sets off that spark anymore.
losing interest before the ink is even dry
on the check just signed,
already looking for what’s next, only to say
been there, done that, and pass on by.
never passing up the opportunity to ruin your day,
to put you faults and hang-ups on display.
splayed out on a beach, basking in the sun,
the only thing to rival the feeling
is a nice, warm gun.
blankets bind us together,
bundled up from the chill of fall.
shorter days; so many ways that i’m missing you.
two months too many have come and gone,
it’s been so long.
lonely is my least favorite feeling.
a sleep without dreams,
it’s the strangest thing,
staring at the ceiling,
shadows drop down from the rafters and beams.
that smile, that sweater, an old pair of jeans,
a wink—do you know what you do to me?
stolen glances in a crowded room, heart pounding,
each loud boom means i’m falling for you.

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