doing your best

Marie + Jo's week of wonders comes to a close. I wish I had a drawn out reflection to give you, the reader, which is like 4 people. In many ways nothing happened and everything did too. I managed to cry a lot, sometimes out of frustration, fear (of the world's state of affairs), anger (towards the world's state of affairs) and finally due to your run of the mill sadness that is one of the only constants in my life. I verbalized to you how I have trouble allowing things to be truly nice, how I try to find the bad in things because I have some sort of survivor's guilt. You called this week in Maine a nice time. It was nice but not all the time. It was nice to feel close to you and see you, as you are. Masks off.

I arrived back to Brooklyn feeling a bit more hopeful. I am covered in bug bites, I think I even have one in my labia. I installed my AC on my windowsill. I thought of the last time I was sleeping in the vicinity of an AC unit and it was when I  first moved to nyc and lived at 7 Rivington. Jonas complained about how loud the AC was, it sounded like a little motorboat. The room was so small and we had arrived during the middle of a heatwave. God, I was so happy to be here even though we both knew the underlying sadness. I thought of you Jonas. I think of you everyday. I try not to compare you to others because I know it's unfair to do so. I'm glad I don't feel like our time was cut short or something. I woke up at 7 and went to fort greene park. We talked on the phone, I told you about Maine and you told me about your date. You told me you were sanding the chairs we bought, you wanted to make them waterproof, why didn't we ever do that? We can be so lazy though I'll always blame the laziness on you. Today I miss you so much and I admit I let out a sob after we talked. 

Sometimes it feels like I'm always carrying a little loss within me no matter how nice things are. A knot in my throat forms. 

I’m proud of this home I’ve built

q: Which worlds are possible?

                                   a: Sleep is caught & peeled

into air which bloats each night, so that we 

are at a loss for words?

measuring days through pedometer graphs

instead of cups of coffee

the soundtrack is by Steve Reich 

or is that a migraine or–

I am so happy to see you again

I will be, I mean, interpreted by 

intermittent loss that sips bathwater

your voice when the pressure between us 

drops too low–

It’s good

perfect, even–

to spend each night

in shambles

my room is clean

I have no bills to pay;

unsurmountable student debt

till death do us part–

but the blood oranges are in season now

they are so fresh

tart yet sweet

in harmonious union

I see clear

this is my future, present, past