229. August 16th, Salem, Moon: Waxing

At this stage of adulthood
I cry so infrequently, quarterly
at best, that the occurrences have become a thing
I cannot help but document.

I am crying and facing the northwest wall of my bedroom
and noticing the one-inch space where the paint beneath
wants us to remember its past life.
I am in the bathroom at work feeling
like a bit of an idiot.
I am at the shore and it feels as though my bones
are trying to shake their way out of my skin.
I am crying at 9:41 P.M. and it is
startling. And a Thursday.

And so forth.
I do not enjoy being reminded that I am human,
but I hear that no one is fed a life
solely consisting of cups filled with joy.

Something here runneth over. Sometimes
I'm suffocating, regardless of which town
my feet whisper home to. I will wake up
in the middle of the night and note
that there is not a person in an eighty-seven mile radius
whom I can tell about the blue paint,
or how my sister came home last week, or how
I occasionally get so goddamned lonely
that I want nothing more than to be held
but my pride has grown into an awful beast
that won't let me call out anyone's name.

228.

The last time I felt absence,
a well, an echo? The way you can't sit still
is a reminder of this
and I am not quite sure
where I am supposed to bring you.
My reappearances have poor timing,
I know. We all want
to be in two places at once.
Lord knows which one of us
is the dragon.