nice sometimes

sometimes it's nice to smell the heaters when they first turn on and eat peanut butter with raspberry preserves and listen to music i've never heard. sometimes it's nice to cut paper with sharp scissors and buy shoes exactly like the ones i had on when i went to the store and to tell you, this way, how much i think of you when i do these things that are nice, sometimes.

holidays at my parents' house

stacks of magazines and catalogues all addressed to my dead grandfather, all selling the same handguns and slippers and stick-on stained glass. stacks of everything, everywhere. the television too loud. my father gone. my mother and baby brother asleep in their chairs, always, off and on. i spend the holidays at my parents' house awake. and awakening. and awake.

broken belt

eating, sleeping, living alone is a little bit like driving without power steering. everything is slow. deliberate. it's all my arms can do to turn the right direction, to stay within the lines.

if i called

i'd feel awkward. it would be too late. you might be busy, or sleeping, or both. i'd feel guilty. i'd apologize. you would either understand or not. if i called, it would be a failure. if i called, would you answer?

i do and do not have these things.

the usual. comforter money faith heart.
the will to stay warm when it's cold out.
a swan in my bedroom. eyes to see it.