//

I stomp on the floor just to make a sound
I get lonesome.

mom’s don’t say this.
but I get you.

//

stream of consciousness barfe:

It’s on nights like these
my head is itching
I should wash my hair
I don’t mind it though
I run my fingers though it
and instead I do the dishes,
two at a time.

I pause to listen for the sound
always listening for the sound
I hear what I am waiting for
I continue at the sink.

It’s on nights like these
“lost and alone in a sea of sorrows”
like the painting said
over a decade ago.
That’s not me anymore, though,
a decade later
riding high on solitude
and borrowed literature.

It’s on nights like these
recycle bin over flowing
fruit flies
both encircle me
angelic foreshadowing
I pause again,
I wait for the sound.

Its on nights like these
steam invades my
personal space,
reveals those curls.
It edits
It deletes
It makes me
too tired for internal
monologues.

Curls and dew from
steam and sweat, competing,
my youth in full bloom.
On display.

But then, I guess, not really.
I am woman now,
with time on her side.
With lines on her face,
and messed up insides,
and sympathy for the devil
and all that shit.

It’s on nights like these
are those crickets
or is it just electricity?

Either way
the melody leads me.
I forget about grammar,
I release the time and space
and air between us
with heavy handed commas.

(He uses heavy handed commas,
too, you know. It’s one of the
first things I noticed.)

Its on nights like these
I feel deep and heavy
like ancient earth,
like fertile ground,
a hunger for something
yet also a definite
thankfulness
contentment
a wholeness maybe.

I pause for the sound,
I don’t command it
I wait, more patiently
on nights like these.

(long stares, heavy eyelashes,
empty, tabula rasa, obviously.)

//