our still lives posed like a bowl of oranges

there’s too much of a title wave.  did you notice, my only metaphor is water?  waves, tides, rowing… tonight, it’s the past swelling, capped with foam and cresting.  i wallow in it, filling my head with music and images.  i’m living in your letters.  this is the first song for your mix tape, and it’s short just like your temper.  it’s just me and the moon, she says. he said, i think i’m cured, thank you stranger for your therapeutic smile.

it’s hard to keep under the bed.  sometimes it refuses to be ignored.