Your thoughts still bring flowers for my brain

The sunshine is still here, just… reflected back.  I am the moon tasting of the sun in the nighttime.  The past distorts, shines brighter, cuts deeper, gives off radiation so strong my hair falls out.  Everything grows back, eventually, but sobriety is a far cry from dawndrunk and I am still waiting for sunrise.  I am a starfish cut in half.  Half of me takes a plane to New Jersey. Half stays here.  I cook half of what I would be cooking, I drive my car half as much.  You are out there living the rest of what I should have.  You go out.  I work.   I go out.  You look for work.  I search for a window back to you.  The internet connection is slow and I think of turtles and weddings and a steady income to raise two children on.  I wait.  See you soon is a drastic overstatement.  I will see you.  That is all.

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I’m on some taking what I think I deserve, and you’re overdue

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I’m kind of.  very happy.  Patron saint of “I don’t normally do this”

although…  that isn’t really true anymore is it?
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metaphors for you!

“Memory is a crazy woman that hoards colored rags and throws away food.”
-Austin O’Malley

“The streets were a furnace, the sun an executioner.”
-Cynthia Ozick
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poetry for you!

Habits – Nikki Giovanni (the first 2/3rds)

i haven’t written a poem in so long
i may have forgotten how
unless writing a poem
is like riding a bike
or swimming upstream
or loving you
it may be a habit that once acquired
is never lost

but you say i’m foolish
of course you love me
but being loved of course
is not the same as being loved because
or being loved despite
or being loved
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A Love Poem During Marriage – Heather Bell

And then she took a series of photographs of her face
and hung each one upside down in the bathroom.   Because that
is where it started.   And she has not showered for days,
months.   So as she steps into the wetness,  her hair becomes soft
like a small possum and the tile around her is forest and

she is walking.   And she comes to a well, moon looking down
sadly like a human.  As if to say she would not have been able
to love a disabled baby.  So she touches the edge of the well

and inside she sees her hands wrapped up in butcher paper.
Because she could not drive to the hospital fast enough,
the moon looks down and removes that which she no longer needs.

She feels ready to leave the house so perhaps if you peeked in
you would see a normal woman not crying in the shower.
You would see her ready her hands to touch other hands.
You would see her soap her body at the neck, and see

no wound there.   But her husband is standing silent while
she is not crying at a deep well and he holds the towel as if

it were a rope and bucket to drag her out.
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Heather Bell is my favorite favorite favorite and I bought her book once but now I can’t find it
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song for you!