her;

I’ll write about her because I’m bored,

or feeling something within the vicinity

of the heart, or both. Fuck, I miss her.

And I guess double fuck, I’m drunk

and it’s like I can taste these old, stale

boundaries.  I’m too late, or too early to

this, and she’ll never know how I feel, or

how I bend back time in the ways I do

following this calendar bending us as far

away as we are now.

­

If you knew her, she was like dipped new

light into fresh, open palms.  Or open

wounds.  She was callous when she needed

to be, profane when warranted, and a stiff

drink or forest fire the rest of the time.

It all made sense.

­

If you know her now, she bucks back.

That’s a part of her ties to the scene;

that’s a show of her intelligence.  All

I’d like to be is a binary star in her

galaxy: a source or humble peddler,

eating up her words and the spaces

between them.  Maybe I could hide

her from hurt.

(Maybe next time.)