Absurdity; that’s what to call her.
Existence; she exists by
Feasting on dead lover’s dreams.
Ironic is the pulsing
Since armless men are not my calling;
Instead I clash with steel and computer screens.





Stained coffee mugs and inexpensive name tags are what define my current life.
Moldy records, cheap mauve wine, and tears that wet my hair.
The inability to actually feel anything; or the overwhelming sensation of experiencing everything.
Equally disappointing.
Transition. Despondency. Exhausted and wondering.
I received airplanes, while you claimed California. I can’t fit them in pockets. I can’t see their flaws. I just write the future and I determine their last fall.

And it’s the moment you realize you are actually living.
It’s strangers that know you instantly,
Because they caught the slight crease in your forehead
When reading the morning news.
Its hands and scenes I wish she didn’t know.
It’s the one chorus playing on my radio
Down the highway, passing graffiti trains and long grown weeds.
It’s the smell of ginger and kisses on lips that bring back the past
That teach me to smile because of where I am.