The Scent Of Fallen Leaves

A fractured piece of light
I still see the way the leaves ripple in the slight breeze
In the patterns of light behind my eyelids

I reveled in that weather
The potent wind blowing leaves across pavement
Rain that scuttles instead of falling

Hugs in bathroom stalls
Every day the same boy gets on the bus
just one stop before I get off

November came and went
But I don't see him on the bus anymore
And the leaves are gone now

Just For You

I wanted to write about sexual masochism, but I can't write what I don't know.

What I do know is how it feels when every day is the same.

When you make it to campus and the one person you want to avoid

is the one who won't let you leave him alone. You should respond when spoken to,

but you really don't want to.

When you just remembered that on top of the homework you've written down,

you have groceries to buy, money to make, emails to respond to, the list goes on—

a hydra of tasks that multiply endlessly when you cross one off

but you can't leave your list untouched; sanity is already on the line

and you can only try to salvage it by acting like you're doing something.

It doesn't matter how much you have to do as long as you have to do something.

When you want to skip class but that would require admitting the unspeakable.

The routine goes on and takes you with it and you pretend it's okay

but it's not, damn it, it's not.

When your scrawled future plans choke you and you feel the weight of

decisions you haven't made and this is the hell of a reality you don't want.

You don't want to add to his worries but you tell him anyway,

and when you leave you feel sorry for doing it and you worry.

You don't know if he knows that you love him not in spite of his past

but because of who he is and you want to help but you don't know how.

When you drag yourself to class anyway because if you don't go

you'll worry you missed something important. Your insecurities hit you

right when everything else crumbles and you've got to hold it together, damn it.

There is no other choice.

When you have more to write but this math will never make sense

unless you pay attention, because the last math class you took was in high school

and that was a long time ago and you need a break.

So you just keep writing because you love your life but not today

and you are going to lose it. Damn it, you're losing it.

When you've got to keep your shit together because you have to peak publicly

in seventy-six minutes and it will suck but you have to do it.

You wouldn't have missed anything if you hadn't gone to class,

except you missed what was said and you miss the days last week

when you thought you had it together and you've got to keep it together but

today isn't even halfway over—in six more weeks you'll get three off

but that's an eternity away. You hope it's glorious, but who knows.

When you want to take a mental health day but you can't, damn it, you can't.

You can only blame your watery eyes on the change in the weather,

and write what you know.

Typewriters and Rotary Phones

At thirteen, death was something to be embraced.
We sat on grassy hillsides under blue skies and a warm sun,
telling stories of spaceships and tigers and all the
hilarious, heroic, glorious ways we would die.

We wrote each other stories about royalty,
locked in an epic struggle to take back a kingdom that had been overthrown.
The short kid who sat behind us always asked if they'd succeeded.
Then the year ended, even though our story didn’t.

We heard stories about what life was like before the present,
before we knew each other. We talked about how lucky we were,
but then laughed and said luck had nothing to do with it,
that this was our destiny. That we were meant to be.

We lived stories of adventure, romance, and bravery
from the safety of somewhere that used to be home
before we had to exist outside of it.
It's harder to be brave alone.

That was seven years ago—I had forgotten until now.
A man spoke to me while he paid for his groceries,
but I wasn't listening to his story until I was reminded of mine.
"I want to bring back typewriters," he said. "Typewriters and rotary phones."

Leaving

When you left,
I didn't cry.
"Two years, no tears,"
someone said,
and so the tears I shed
were not for you.

I wrote to you often,
but I thought of you more.
When you returned,
I was scared.
That while I continued
to care,
you moved on.
Those fears remain
unrealized, but still.

I finally cried for you.

I cried when I was the one
who had to leave. 

False Sympathy

Assholes are easy to deal with,
but the nice customers?
Those are the worst kind.

I said, I can't sell to you if you're buying for someone else.
She told me to give her the damn cigarettes.
I said to myself, I don't like my job,
but it's still worth more than her satisfaction.
She left. I was fine.

The next customer was sorry that happened to me;
so was the next one,
and the next one, and suddenly
I was not fine. I ducked down to wipe my eyes,
because their well-intentioned sympathy
upset me more than the offender herself.

I don't care until they do.
Not until the hesitant remarks on
how sorry they are,
and I come perilously close to caring
what other people think of me,
even if they're strangers.

I said, I can't accept this ID. Do you have another?
He didn't. His prison ID had expired.
I wasn't afraid until the next customer in line
started talking.

The time I called my mom on break,
I cried the entire 15 minutes.
Then it was back to work.
One man said, You've been crying.
I had been, but I didn't want to talk about it
because I didn't want the tears to start again.
I wanted to be left alone.

I wanted to say this:
Their entitlement is not
your
fault.
Just talk to your kid,
text your spouse,
chat with your friend,
and let me move on.

Ignore me, and I'll be fine. 

Summer Haze

Nothing compares to stepping outside in late afternoon and
seeing, hearing, smelling summer.
As a kid it meant freedom, three months to be
worryfree, carefree, schoolfree,
but now it symbolizes time I don't have because I have to make money,
which I also don't have.

I stepped out to get some fresh air --
I would have worn better shoes if I'd known my walk would be so long,
but I didn't know anything except
that I needed to leave my apartment right now
to avoid suffocation.

A couple on a stroll in the park, holding hands.
A couple reading together out loud, in a hammock.
A couple having a picnic under the pavilion. 

So many couples, but I'm all alone,
and I'm still suffocating.
I hope once summer ends I'll snap out of this.
It won't feel strange to say hi to the people I know
and I'll enjoy the time I spend with others.

For now, though, I'm stuck here
in the hazy
summer
air.

Never A Bachelor

Take me out of context
and I make no sense.

A conglomeration
amalgamation,
combination
of thoughts,
actions,
emotions,
experiences,
hopes,
dreams,
and other cliche things. 

I wanted him
because he was forbidden.

But eternally single or eternally not,
the fact remains that I am
never a bachelor.