He's terrified by
her capacity to handle
the bad things and
he's tired of her
silent tears and
"I need to be alone right now."

He secretly hopes for
some dramatic chaos
to happen, something that
will force her to cry in his arms
after she hangs up the phone
with that look on her face.

But he knows that
she has another him for that,
a an whose arms
she collapses into without reluctance,
a man who has
dozens of shirts
stained with her tears,
lined up evenly in his closets.


Sunday Morning (January 8, 2006)

in through the nose
out through the mouth
visible breaths
same houses as every day
Sunday morning
a few windows illuminated
for the early to rise
and their newspapers
red parka man passes
says hello I return it
he stops me says
"you're a good runner"
"I'm not but thanks"
"no you are--
what are you running from"
"excuse me"
"every good runner
has something to run from"
"I'm definitely not good then"

keep going
turn off thoughts
run from nothing--

I insist there is nothing to run from
because if I am running from something
that means that he is too that
everyone who runs every morning does
that they run from sadness
loss discontent body image a breakup
and I don't want to think about that
or anything else when I run

I guess I do run from something
I run from my thoughts
which maybe have to do with
all the things everyone else is running from
or maybe that's just what they run from too

the next time I see
red parka man and
say hello I'll tell him
"you were right"

This actually did happen. My morning runs are insane.


A Car Ride

The station wagon lurches forward
in comparison to the other cars
but, for my grandparents,
25 miles per hour is unconscionable--
it makes them feel young and rebellious again.
Or something.

The car ride is full of that pocketed silence
that only exists within families.
We pass a school and I hold back a question
about the Kennedy assassination-- I don't want to
bring down the dam and flood the car
with not only the answer but my grandfather's
standard JFK rant-- the way he hates him
is the hate most people reserve
for Nazis or ex-husbands.

The question is one of those many things
you keep to yourself when you're with family--
it fits in with my secret affection for Meg Ryan movies
and the way I can't eat an unsalted green apple
and how much I love them
even when I don't--
if you actually felt how much you loved your loved ones
all the time,
your heart would burst.



Every morning,
I wonder if maybe
what I need does not match
who I want or if it's what I want
that does not match who I need
and if I'll always
be reaching for what I can't have
and why I can see my mistakes
acted out right in front of me
but I can't bother to learn from them--
I know that they're being shown,
I know I should learn,
I know the reason for watching this,
but sometimes, it's easier
to be stupid.



Okay, so, Pencil Case was bugging me to update this and I thought of this while attempting sleep last night. It was not intended to be a haiku, it just came into my head that way. That sounded stupid. Here is my first haiku that doesn't totally suck.

Your blinking lashes

scraping against your pillow

is the loudest sound.



I do not know
when this became so easy;
it is so hard to imagine now
that this was once difficult,
the pretending.
We did not fall in love.
We slipped, painless and accidental.
Our love will not cause any harm,
but acting upon it will
(not for us, but rather for them.)
We have gotten so good at pretending
that just because we do not act upon it,
it does not exist, but I think that,
if you boiled us down to nothing,
our love would be the only thing left.

Purely fictional. Sorry. Not in love right now. Leave comments, my babies.



She knows loss but not love,
has learned to be calm amidst chaos,
she knows better than most
(completely grown up
inside a child's body).

She knows that there is more than this,
and I have to wonder
when I lost that,
when I began to think that this was it.

I must wonder if it happens to her, too,
the gut feelings that aren't so much feelings
as they are observations,
a simple stringing-together of daily events
into what they will become,
what no one else sees.

Haha. This actually isn't about anybody. Leave comments? Yes.

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