I also wanna preface this by saying I’m somehow shocked when I remember I care sometimes. I kinda just think I need a new lick of paint like the old one is peeling. I know it could’ve been better but I’ve not found the painter yet and it’s getting cold. A very loosely strung poem with some Mazzy Star/Smiths inspo.
The not real boomerang
it’s so easy to laugh, so easy to hate
it takes strength to feel nothing at all, to
skip over, skip it, nearly made for the screen, not the Portobello Road, not the fickle,
shattering, Endless Love, not the old books, starry ones,
it’s sweeter, humming, the slow simmer, the slowly dimmer, singing
Sally Rooney in the rain, the kind of place you think you’ll go down to and
never come up again, but you will, and you will
because what is ever after? It’s nothing, too much —
that’s not the point of it, forget
the things we said off the set, the lines we tripped, better pray, forget
I want to be gentle and kind, it’s so easy to give, much harder to live,
to see this water come to rust,
where I thought I knew the steps, where I count, into dust
off the romantic brush, like the woman,
like the pink and rosy perfect flush, fly fond,
but how? how it sweeps, where those
August evenings she weeps,
but in this world, it keeps, it keeps, to be, to turn, a cheek,
resting tongue, to go to sleep, to go blind, to forget
I want to shrug
what I had to say, that it rained, that it’s my dad’s birthday, to forget
how heavy the smaller peak ‘tween those heavy
bed eyes, I climbed in the dark, swapping breath, trying to catch both
eyes at once, once,
when you looked both ways, ‘o now we won’t talk, no first
phone call, but today I clean my hair, and
untangle my teeth, I’ll blink, down, the coffee,
in the light, I know, I know, pretty, and single, and to cross the road, to look
twice, or you’ll have nothing at all,
I stumbled somewhere there,
far away from the crossing, but I’m not sure anymore, not these days, as
I leave my feet on the floor and the heat comes on, the steam she’s
smoking, all I ever wanted, things I could’ve hunted, but didn’t,
the sum of it all, but now all I have are
clouds, clouds, over my head, sometimes I’m not sure if we ever said anything, but
I know if I wanted you more, maybe I would miss you less, I’m no fire,
extinguished, only ashes, ashes, ember, the gone
black roses on a red dress, and it’s over, I don’t even cry, it’s just
stuck in my eye, the one day, someday, where you’ll outrun me
in the way I limp, while you jump off every cliff like it’s nothing, and you’ll
tell me about it, stories, come running, but I wouldn’t trade it now, don’t miss
the waiting ‘neath the door, holding kitchen sink, your eyes
fleeing to the lacier dress, for the floor,
I was the one you’d never adore, not like the steaming cup of coffee,
I want it back, none of that, not like that
sea, see the stream, it runs, comes running, ’til it lies,
and I’m not a puddle girl, in days, my slumping eves are over, but now
I just sit, too wise
like the not quite right jumper out of the wash you can’t
bring yourself to throw, it’s got nearly the same amount of thread in it
but it looks like a stranger no more
but you can’t see it, under a light you never would, you wanted
bigger, but I go, with grace, and keep it with mine, and brush
your sleeve bye, take little wind, little care,
I’m set, flames coming up hair,
I’m sailing, in the hall,
I’m stepping, in the faces, I’ll come running,
slip, September
or I’ll fall
