still

tiptoeing down a
spiral staircase
to arrive at the room
where a breathe from
a couple years ago
a memory oh I
remember it was the
smell of a worn in
sweatshirt
home
slightly woodsy
breathe full
of found branches
cranberries
leaning into warmth
a memory

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bump

verbally pinching
purposely confusing
manipulating
soft takes
what you do to it
I hope the last impression
of me wasn’t of a
completely unraveled
arms that
don’t feel like mine
a navy dress

fever

I feel myself control water
around him
drowning
he came in through the front
door pouring ballpoint pens upon
the hostess stand
he said he was a hoarder
a few months later
I realized that
he had a
fever and he said yes touch my head
is it hot
now i sit with a heaviness
at the awareness of naivety
connected
glassy blue eyes
and the dark moments
of intuition

room of ones own

sitting in the corner chair
staring at a room of white
and blue paintings that I’ve made
there are plenty of green plants
to contrast
I miss New York and the cold
I would have been feeling
I miss the stovetop that I had to light
with a lighter
there was a smell of
several seasons
of decay and bloom
the cycle
that just isn’t present
in this place
in this chair in the corner
of my room