did your mom tell you bout the man on the moon?

i am critical of the concept of truth these days.

i wish you could see what i carved into the tree outside your old window:


i never knew how to live in the moment

i wanted to pin you down behind glass

it’s art if the scarab’s dead//

you’ve still got living to do

i don’t like movies about space

the isolation

i need gravity and an overabundance of air

windy city, lakeshore drive at night when we pulled over the car

to watch the waves like glass shatter on the shoreline

a sure sign of winter, longer nights.

i’ve had two lovers i don’t write poems for,

why is that?

i stay up all night, staring at the moon,

following the cycle and sleep through the day;

i’ve always had insomnia, you fell asleep first

so i can’t ask you if you know

or if you’re angry with me

when i’m just sad i chose to miss you

that i needed to.

for my twenty-third birthday i went skinny-dipping in the lake

moonbathing, floating

you weren’t there for that,

i want to go back to who that boy was.


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