four

morning.
one lonely, late night
i drove home
and knowng of the
early. ungodly hour
i would awake to
i scrawled
“morning!”
in the windscreen fog


whine
sometimes i really do feel i am not enough to inpsire a sonnet, to necessitate a dedication, a swoon, a two second glance that wasn’t to ensure i wasn’t someone else who you saw at a party last weekend on the other side of town.

sock
scared to touch. scared to be touched. and scared to lift my head so you can put a face to the wonky girl holding a scrunched paper bag with croissant crumbs all in her hair, odd socks that have slipped from the ankle, gathered all about the heel.

s.list.
paperclips
smut
and
superglue
things i mean to buy.
never do.