some things

two days ago i walked in the wind and ate good mexican food that my best friend's husband made and i sat next to their daughter and helped her push up her sleeves because the food was messy and it was so cold outside that i wore a scarf and hat my cheeks were pink and i left past one o'clock and when i got home i felt better about some things.

things in my refrigerator:

a dozen eggs (almost out of date); half a jar of pickles (dill, slices); brown mustard (squeeze bottle); red seedless grapes (past prime); half a quart of soy milk (organic); antibiotics for the cat (they smell like bubblegum); caesar salad dressing (in a glass jar); half a bag of salad (inedible); the kind of peanut butter that has to be stirred (almost gone); half and half (just bought today); and other things i can't remember. the light goes out all the time.

late:

but that's alright. there are sixteen pages of words you'll probably never read. they are elsewhere. so am i. what would you really do? if it mattered?

if i were:

i'd buy the tiniest tee-shirts, with obnoxious things like pumpkins and misspelled words on them. i'd model them against my belly. i'd ease into chairs with satisfaction. i'd tell secrets under my breath every day. i'd look both ways before i cross the street.

there is so much, to say, to think, so much more than this, what's here, here i am, send me, send me over the edge, over there, there is so much more, i want so much more than this.

no refills

suppose there were two, and one was empty, and the other was half-full. how does the equation balance? suppose there were only one. which one? if we're talking about glasses, are they actual glass? can you see inside from the sides? split me open, please. put something in.

sum qualis eram

not tonight, not tonight, not tonight, please, not.

i love:

sweaters, the fuzz they leave on slacks, their perfect v-necks; how leaves fall into my hair, always--they go out of their way; bedhead; squeaky brakes; the way mouths move when they say newspaper; the last, feeble rays of sunlight on an afternoon like this one.

conditions

if i could, i'd shift back. i'd form myself into a former self. it'd be gorgeous, backward time, progress through regression. if i could, i'd ask you. if i could, you'd answer, yes.

it depends:

on the air, on our skin and the cost of suncreen, on the angle of sunlight, on the trees, on the leaves that fall from trees. when we burst into song. when there's nothing else we can do. when the breathing stops.

i don't know how to play:

squash; tennis; anything with rackets; to my strengths; backgammon; rummy (i forgot); bridge; hard to get; the violin; first-person shooters (i get dizzy); piano; around; with others.

sunday

this is the coldest day so far, the worst, the breeziest, the one where sweaters aren't enough. my heart aches. breathing is sinful. my thighs will not unthaw from the concrete.

lapsus

you're dazed, secluded, miles away from everything. then he shows up. it's perfect. you're medicine head and he's delicious, so talky. everything. he was waiting, and you.

file this under never. file this under please.