Where’d You Go; I Miss You So

Passion Pit is playing and I’m remembering your profile,
as we drove through Clayton, somewhere on Delsea and I
listened as you sang on key,
one hand on the steering wheel,
fingers on your free hand
tapping absentmindedly.

I don’t ever remember hearing Passion Pit in your presence.

I wrote a story where you died and I visited your gravestone,
with two Coronas, in a baggy flannel and torn up Chucks because it was easier
for me to pretend you were dead than to accept you had willingly left.

I still want everything to do with you.

I have written probably over a hundred posts, prose, poems about you and I don’t know how to stop.
I don’t know what else to say to you to make you get it.
You broke me,
and I’m still sweeping up the pieces, trying to glue myself back together,
rise from the ashes…
but your smile still burns like raided villages,
and your laughter is the like the cries of terrified children
and murder and massacre take place simultaneously;
easier to believe in a harsher reality,
than accept and live with whatever the hell you did to me.

You fucked me up.
You fucked me over.

All without making love to me.
All because you tried to make memories.
All by making promises you never intended to keep.

Old songs are playing,
and I wonder if you would still sing along
if you knew all the words.
I wonder if you’d link the fingers of your free hand
with mine, and we could just drive,
in silence, in moments
that I live in more than reality.
I hate that I still think about these days,
I still think about you this way.
That it’s been almost nine months since August 28th,
and I still see you
sitting in the Lazy Boy as I sit at your feet.

I always bowed down to you,
kissed the ground you
walked upon.

I can’t get you out of my head and I hate it.

I hate it.

I absolutely


Night Owl

I am sitting in a pitch black room, but somehow it appears navy. My face is only lit up by the man-made light that comes from a fluorescent computer screen. Pandora is playing James Blake and I am happy.

I have just finished a Vinyasa set of my own making and somehow I am still breathing. Doped up on allergy medicine and my own worst enemy, midnight memories, I sit in silence and feel my body sigh with relief. I am happy.

I sit with my legs folded under me and my hair wrapped in a makeshift bun at the nape of my neck. My legs are bare and prickly; I’m in an old T from cheer and “yoga shorts” that have my ass hanging more than halfway out and I am happy.

I am sipping on ice water, feeling the dull throb at the base of my spine; I let my body unwind. I am happy.

The First (Face)Time

I am having late night cravings,
For everything from chips
To pickles
To pizza and I’m remembering
Us eating ice cream at midnight
Because I couldn’t drive to Rita’s
And I remember getting mine out of the fridge and all we had was mint chocolate chip (Turkey Hill)
And then I sat down to eat some,
And you told me to hold on, because now you wanted ice cream,
And I watched you in your kitchen,
And when you came back on the screen you were scooping spoonfuls of mint chocolate chip ice-cream
Into your mouth and I asked what brand
And you said “Turkey Hill”
And you didn’t know what flavor I was eating,
Or what brand
Before then,
But if that was some type of universal sign,
Dang, babe,
We both missed it.


Ice-Cream at Midnight

And the next thing I know, you’re seeing me without make-up;

completely exposed, mind you, and you don’t even know

that my mask of powder is not on until I say so

and then you’re falling asleep,

face illuminated by the light of your TV and

you’re asking if you can say something

without it being weird

and I’m saying yes,

and you called me:


Like a little sister.

And I’m not playing that memory on repeat,

I’m not having your voice play in my head like a broken record.


I am mourning

the way we were

the beautiful thing we had

if only for a month

before it was torn away

by time

by distance

by guilt.

I am mourning the melted

mint chocolate chip.