What a lady once called a misplaced script.

It's so hard being the one there. On the end of the phone pretending I'm not crying so I won't make you feel worse. Noises of the city. "I can't hear you." "Don't worry." "I'll talk to you later." "Ok." Things turn so quickly into everything angry and ugly. And you're far far. Off the end of the phone, off a cliff and not yourself. Outside of yourself and outside of us and there's nothing I can do and it makes me something. Sort of mad about it. Sort of fervent and something something else. We started the week with funny, silly, lovely words and now it's just some covered-up tears and you all large in your head, all full of everything that is now and all that you don't think will change in months and years and time. Bursting things, uncommon. Refracted in the window between this minute and the next is all possibilities all inevitabilities all improbabilities all. Elated or embittered? Happy and sad are mixed up brawling, up in each others' faces and flailing limbs like they're in a stupid bar fight. The boundaries are murky and indistinct. And where are you in all that? And where am I? And what on earth am I supposed to do about it? And what have these last few months been about? And when do I start picking up all the debris on the floor, on the bottoms of my shoes everywhere I go? And who is supposed to tell me it's all going to be ok? Because I'm ready for your entrance and I'm out here blind with a bundle and a broken one.

Heap

The rhythm of heart-dwelt drums.
Stepping washed uneven pavements.
Strung-together notes, paper chain inspired.

Life in the past.

There are roses. And heart-shaped balloons and
confetti type things that
are annoying because they get everywhere in all the little
small crevasses and gaps, all the in-betweens.
There are days set aside and tied up in sentimental sentiment
and also ribbons.
There are scribbled graffittied blue-lined
notebooks that say nothing except how much we all want to
bridge the white space of the page that's like the white space
both denied and admitted with a childish ever-after,
a word,
used by everyone and the biggest most obnoxious
cliche in the whole wide world. Yet
exactly what I mean. You
and a blank space and me and some air making the car
windows fog up with messy alphabets.
There's no epiphany here not even a grassroots one not
even and then a whispered prayer.
You hold me from so so far away.