everyone else on this flight has a travel hobby
like the guy next to me sleeping
I’m watching 3 movies at the same time
keeping up with the stories I made up
mixing the lines
i should ask my neighbors all to use captions
it’s rude they didn’t offer
they should know I’ve lost
my book in the hotel room
swept in the sheets of a sleepless night
weird shit happens
when you’re tired
carefully careless
standing around
staring into a space
it’s cold around the edge of my lips.
looking for a sign
like seeing a shooting star
streak across my iris in a reflection
leaving a chemtrail of toothpaste and dirty mirror weather.
it’s all in the drift
daydreams between the space of everything
I’m staring into the fridge
I’m spacing for a sign
that my life has finally started.
Trying to revisit previous lives is like looking your shadow in the eyes. they just aren’t there.
I still have a lot to say on the matter
but I’m avoiding talking to you for
both of us
There’s nothing left to surrender
so I took small steps today like
the first few steps out the door in the fall
right when the season starts
You don’t know if it’s warm
but it looks warm through a window
so you go outside without a jacket
then run back to the house
I wasn’t ready
But I made it further than I thought
I have memories of growing up, but more like stacks of polaroids in my head with storied affiliations.
It’s quite easy to fall through the floor. Just put your feet down. There’s nothing to hold you upright but a confident assumption.
I remember who I was when, and how I used to be.
I think a lot about death, and a lot about dying.
I think I’ve died a few times.
I hardly exist anymore, pleading with the dirty grass
and torn down dandelions.
Everything I am in full,
is nothing.
And will return the same.
Late nights,
Later mornings.
State to state shift.
I left my brain to dry
on a stretched out circadian.
Wondering where time went,
as I’m watching it float by.
After hours in hotels at night
A poignant still in the middle of monoliths
Fake bedrooms, specks of life
TVs flicker, little lights
To the tune of the growling highway
Like a nighttime souvenir
Soft ideas left hanging on the air.
no longer inspired by,
no longer remembered.
The walls of my skull painted,
with soft ideas and stains
burnt in like cigarettes.
Small holes, terrible edges.
Soft ideas abandoned
formless on my breath.
No longer inspired by.
6am: dawn fog folds me over and i slide into my skin again.
Sleep hangs on the apartment, 70 degrees. on my eyes in confusion.
Graceless stumble in full effect, I’ve been here before.
Quick history sets in and my senses register one by one, a smooth relation.
607am: Breathe.
Swaying in the silent morning
to this high-tone scramble.
Tuned out in the background
with the window’s early glow.
The warm mug at every coffee shop. How many lips have stained this ceramic? The sidewalks strung along miniature cities, and the steps they’ve strayed. How many lives went one block too far, how many missed connections lingering by the street lights. First last kisses hung up overnight in cold breath. Each of us left standing, stirring, gagged in the gutter and wasted on the words we never spoke. Each corner screams its stories, and the signposts sing to sleep. All of this a secret only we would know, looking through the windows lined along the road.
The winter sun through a window
paints the room warm
I've cut the cold in parts,
and it means more
felt between the panes and the past