content warning
sadness sorrow woe

you write so much of joy

of love

of laughter

of ethereal untouchable things

feelings i cannot understand

why not of simpler things?

have you forgotten?

have you left these petty mortal concerns behind?

oh no. certainly not. the feelings are all still there, just -- waiting their turn to be tended, loved, remembered, and forgotten anew. i simply write what is ready to be written.

seems an easy cop out

can't rush the process. asking to write me a poem would be like asking the sky to rain -- surely it will happen, in due time.

well, try. what of sorrow?

oh, that's easy.

tears on pillowsheets, unseen
flowers, long dried, on a windowsill
the smell of something, something unplaceable, that shouldn't be there

white
the color of ballgowns
the touch of marble
the sound of playing pretend

black
a night sky, full of longing
limousines and cameras
the metal thud of the door slamming on reality

a hand hanging off a bedframe
too late
too late
too late

i can't remember
before
when her skin didn't feel like the pages of our picturebook stories
when her breath didn't

smell

like

something


someone



dying

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there. how'd i do?

—november twentyfive twothousandzerohundredstwentyfive