Practice does not make perfect. Practice makes permanent. Repeat the same mistakes over and over, and you don’t get any closer to Carnegie Hall.
I am watching parts of me evaporate like sidewalk water. This wet grey, this nighttime dew, gone before morning.
A sky still fits the ignition. There just isn’t anything left to drive.
I will love you with too many commas, but never any asterisks.
And then there are days when sleeping is the hardest. The fight of muscle against world becomes so constant, that surrendering to slumber doesn’t promise nearly enough relief. These are times when hands feel nothing but empty.
And somewhere in between then and now irony slipped its way into my vocabulary. Laughter became the antidote for guilt. Sacrifice grew to be a Band-Aid for shame.
Sure, I know where most things are but give me enough time and I can lose anything.
Me – I was not born with enough fuel. My anger often melts into sadness, it will just disintegrate into shame or fear, my clenched teeth release into chatter.
I tilted my head, looked into the distance. I don’t even notice you falling in love with me, I practiced to the mirror. I am too preoccupied with what I am doing. Nobody wants to be noticed when they are falling in love. It is a private moment. Whoever was falling in love with me, I reasoned, deserved not to be disturbed.
Practice does not make perfect. Practice makes permanent.
What is it about immortality? With the right sword and shield, we think we can fend off anger, fear, and hatred. If our legs are strong enough, we think we can outrun age, loss, and death.
Let the statues crumble. You have always been the place.
I will wake up early with my heavy heartbeat. You will say. Can’t we just sleep in, and I will say, No, trust me. You don’t want to miss a thing.
Once, she fell off of a ladder when I was three. She says all she was worried about was my face as I watched her fall.
In New York, when a tree dies, nobody mourns that it was cut down in its prime. Nobody counts the rings, notifies the loved ones. There are other trees. We can always squeeze in one more. Mind the tourists. It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t wanna live there.
No, I don’t think poems will save us. And yet, and yet.
You have taken to wearing around your father’s hand-me-down anger. I wish that you wouldn’t.
You love each other until the city becomes beautiful.
Impossible is trying to connect in this world; trying to hold on to others when things are blowing up around you; knowing that while you are speaking, they aren’t just waiting for their turn to talk. They hear you.
And the first time you come down to dinner, and your son is sitting at the dining room table wearing your hatred on his shoulders, who is going to be the first to tell him it is finally time to take it off?
I know you’ve taken to wearing tour father’s hand-me-down anger. But I wish that you wouldn’t. It’s a few sizes too big and everyone can see it doesn’t fit you...