this one's not a poem

it's roundabout, circuitous, 

imprecise,

and not quite what I want to say at all.

(poetry)

it's very hard to talk about things in terms of other things, today.

probably because I'm doing it for a grade.

Weight

Somewhere nearby

there is someone else cutting their losses.

To sever that which no longer

functions in conjunction with the mass,
or that acts as an anchor in the

grand scheme of things

is always the strong way;

Preferential to being seized by the

slaughter of a fairy tale ending, anyway...

but it's not easy.

My window sills have a few inches

of deep snow on them—the silt of

the downfall—and the sight

of the pane is making me stop

and think about it all,

and how I want you to be the crux of it,

but you are so stubborn, and I

am wanting to sleep

because I can't run out and distract myself

from my livelihood or lack-thereof

like I usually do.

The branches on my trees outside

are weighed down by the aftermath of the storm,

and so am I.

This is how sad it is when somebody goes

Mornings do not feel

the same without you here.

"Something" spins around and around

on the stereo,

I keep it on repeat to remind me.

The only thing that is missing the noise waking

you up, like that time I was making

pancakes and you woke up, startled and without me,

and instantly you were scared that I had left you.

Like I’d ever leave you.

All of the things I have painted mean nothing
without your approval.
The coffee can't hold a candle to your coffee,
and the trees I see on 64th Street
driving to work
aren't pretty at
Christmas time anymore,
at least not to me, driving without you.
I hardly even acknowledge it all,
or the premonition that you
might not come back.

This is grammatically rough and needs a new title but for now its "Youth"

Spinning in circles until plummeting onto the soft grass,
going back and forth on swing sets and dancing

unconcerned about how it looks to others;

Blowing bubbles with wands and pink bubblegum,

this innocence that sparkles but they say tends to fade quickly.

We make wishes on eyelashes and stars.
We get hurt, but only when we trip and fall. And the pain doesn't linger longer than it should.
Dandelions are flowers, not weeds, and
crushes never strain us.
We were too ignorant to hope that this would never fade or becomes something else—we just blew out our birthday candles and wished to grow.