this time i was happy

i see it in the redwood trees

and nasturtium leaves

in the broken breeze of a

passenger window

goin slow in the melon groves

i was the one watching

in the starboard dreams they run

in the ink on her arm they sing

in that breath of cigarette smoke

so sweet i kissed you

on the lonely nights

catching the jet trails and

wailing trains and the

highway's whisper

i heard you

so clear and loud and

pressing

i can hear you

in a sting of a bee

when i bit my tongue

or stubbed my toe

i felt you

don't think you go by unnoticed

because you're there

every

damn

day

in the flash of a moth's eye

i saw you.

the bath

i put my ears underwater to hear my heart beat. the hum of the fan breaking past the barrier. i'm trying to remember that time in my life when everything was golden and shiny. everything was as it should be; a disdain for school, a pool of mediocre friends sharing meaningless conversation, a complete and utter lack of understanding and gratitude for what i had. that was my last life, my current one has a harsh glow to it. it can sometimes be overwhelming to look at and so i turn away but still with a headache. all at once nothing seams real and everything seems possible. such an odd sensation to comprehend; i switch it on and off depending on my level of insight that day. the warm water is almost uncomfortably warm, my body temperature a couple points above normal. i want to stay under, i want to stay in this weird stage of existence where nothing exists outside of the bathroom. the soap, the smell, the wrinkled puckered skin that slouches off of my frame like dead weight i can't shake off. i find her books and her necklaces in my room. i found her wedding dress the other day smelling of her and of age. it was the simplest thing, the simplest and most logical and beautiful thing. i look at my hands, my face, my eyes, my waist. i wonder if anything is exactly as hers was. anything to keep that alive. but it's all from the other life. that life of predictability and security and mediocrity. how i wish to feel like my life is mediocre again, what a gift that would be.
existing is a weird phenomena; it takes on so many different forms and functions and grocery lists. her handwriting is around the house still. i'll find scraps of paper and try to pull out the most of one word in her handwriting but all there is is ink and a time lost. these ghosts in my head wonder out sometimes, in the middle of the night, check on what i've been doing, see what i've become and i am afraid they'll return disappointed or upset and start fights with my thoughts. my other life is there in the moment before i wake up or when i fall asleep. i slip into that place of mediocrity, of bliss, for a millisecond and i don't even have the satisfaction or comfort of remembering it.