954

I can’t write a page of my play but I can write remorse into five pieces of prose a day and we can discuss why or not

I can’t bite into an apple without thinking of a dream I had where all my teeth shattered against a red mountain

it’s hard to describe
without seeming

–

-

I’m hanging up my wet clothes

let them dry and bend

my shoes

melting for a brief life
on their own
in the heat
in the sun

does this seen like home
to everyone else
in this house

these branches knock
keep me up
revolt my sleep

still smoking
not drinking as much

when did it get meaningful

come pick me up
because
I don’t know