two hundred forty-three

i think when i
dropped my new phone
on the sidewalk
and i saw the many
lines of crackage
on the screen
a piece of my mind
became cracked as well
unleashing the headache
the lingers on
just like the cracks
on the phone
proof that the moment
happened and that the
aftershocks still tremble
despite the wave of calm
and the realization
that time, tylenol, and
tools can fix it all

two hundred forty-two

she searches for silence
in the slips of space
between the darkness,
the deepest depth of black,
that break into the soft light,
saturated with hints of blue.
she searches for silence
so she can sing herself
to sleep, find her breath
and feel calm.
sometimes the silence
she searches for slips
away, leaving her with
no space and no soft light
to speak of. on those days,
she debates the beauty of black
and the brokenness of blue
as she waits for an opening yet again.

two hundred forty

some poems are not really
poems, but really statements,
shared facts of life written
on a page, perhaps. this poem
is not particularly grand,
or stellar
and perhaps a little too
sentimental.

tonight i write this poem
about a fact i was reminded of
as i breathed and lived
another day.

tonight i write
this poem to remind you how lucky
you are, i am to be alive tonight
to be able to read words
and process thought
to be comfortable in a bed
and filled with dinner
to be home and to have a home
to have someone to love
to be able to hug yourself
or have someone hug you
how lucky you are
i am
tonight because we never know
about tomorrow.

two hundred thirty-nine

the night felt short
and before i knew it
eyes needed to close
and bodies needed to
rest and the whole
day was lost in a puddle
of too-late-ness and
starlight. the night
felt too short and as
i dozed under the deep
blue blanket, i wandered
about you and when i’d
find the time, the night
time, to tell you the truth.

two hundred thirty-eight

how quickly the habit drops off
when the world gets shaken up
how quickly we let other things
seep in and take the place of
something we hold dear.

i am sorry, dear habit, that you
have been lost in the sounds of
the bustling city and the thoughts
of my turbulent mind, but i am
happy i can return here, to attempt
re-commitment again and again.

two hundred thirty-seven

all my poems should be about my love of sleep
and how now my body yearns for bed before the clock
reads ten and i find myself counting down the minutes
until it is socially acceptable for me to find the warmth
under the sheets and call it a day as my eyelids come to a close
full days are calling for deep sleep nights and all i can do is succumb