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
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
you weren’t there for that,
i want to go back to who that boy was.