I’m trying to get back into writing again and I figured the best way for me to do that would be to start writing. Someone once told me that when I find myself without something to write I simply need to lower my expectations. Sounds simple enough.
She paints (as always)
against a setting sun;
the wispy clouded sky
shading her wayward thoughts
through smoke ascending
over unclothed shoulders,
the final slivers of crimson
closing like lips in the distance –
I could brush time forever.
She turns, and I wish
I knew more than just pieces
of cigarettes and art.
The Things in my Coffee
I found it for a bit
reflecting off a porcelain plate,
a knife-blade smeared in cream.
I should have taken it
before it began to float,
spiraling to the bottom of my cup;
just one cold, dirty sip
in the search for warmth.
It was there (I’m certain it was there)
somewhere lost in a page I didn’t read,
in words falling from my neighbor’s mouth
pouring her burnt thoughts over the floor,
adding to the death, the stick of my shoes;
I should have swiped my finger under the chair
and tasted what still remained to taste.
I had it, I know I felt it in the room
staring at my face, hiding in the dust.