strasbourg, in the morning, as i remember it

6 am. geneviève shuffles around the house, blue light coats my room. the sound of her morning tasks inadvertently wake me up. i check the time with a start, always relieved when it’s 3 hours before i actually have to rise. back to sleep.

9 am. a perpetual january. sometimes the blue cast remains, but on lucky days, the warm sunlight pours in through the windows. my red sheets are on the floor and my phone is on the patterned strip of carpet. i’m anxious, of course, but anxious in france nonetheless. i put on the birkenstocks i received that christmas, a little joy and integral part of my morning. the floors creak wildly beneath me as i step out of my room and into the hallway, then into the shared bathroom. the light is always a bit more blue in this room: cold. cold in the best way. again, a sharp and perpetual january. i splash my face with the cold water. after making sufficient noise, geneviève knows i’m awake and begins to heat up two crepes.

9:15 am. i sit in the kitchen, a beacon of natural light, to enjoy my nutella and banana crepes and my cup of unsweetened black tea. the first morning i didn’t much care for the taste of the tea, but i’ve begun to crave the hot and light thing. 

summers ago

your gleamy eyed look just as a kid whose eyes widen at whatever sight there is to behold. it’s me. 

under the pool’s surface you take your time. and i worry, because that’s who i am. full body in function, i expect you to do something, anything when you inevitably rise. you instead fix your hair. 

yet i still admire. you look around in disbelief, in confusion. you think it couldn’t possibly be you.

so, if you’d prefer to stay in the pool water, nebulous under its surface, i’ll join you. the chlorine will purify my body of this strange thing.

thoughts ago

oftentimes people say “i’ve never felt like this before,” and it’s a lie before it even leaves their lips.

it’s not a lie when the thought swarms my skull. i swear that it’s true this time. my nervous energy succumbs to serenity.

but if you never say the word, then i will never indulge myself in fantasies. i’ll hold back for your sake.

you always hated when i basked in all of you anyway.

still, i wish i could write you something better. something like a song that you’d inevitably end up hating. but i waste my words in your presence, wanting to tell you the whole world and all things unseen.

well, maybe it’s not true this time.

writer’s block

a lesson on the bastardization of the art of poetry:

poetry has become thoughts as they exit my brain,

and thoughts that exit my brain have become poetry.

today’s poetry is a tired journal entry, a stream of consciousness.

well, how does one organize a river?

and if i can’t decipher the words that desire structure, how am i supposed to write the poetry of tomorrow?

that, i don’t have the answer to.

what i do have:

brain fog and a less than expansive thesaurus.

a concept

the way a dog limps away to die alone to maintain dignity even in death. as to not burden the others.

is it only dogs that do this?

a lanky stretch

down the grey hallway, a lanky stretch of adolescence carries themselves with a gait slipped on like a mood ring. it’s always a wild card: steps of playfulness or steps of misery. dewy eyes hold fire, both impossibly warm and raging. hair drips down their scalp as honey drips down its comb. despite whatever doubt may be inside, they hold their head high, radiating absolute confidence and assurance. yes, it can translate into subtle smart-assery, but it’s all a part of their charm.

a sentence

i’ll leave my knife out for you.

a pair of words

gardenias, honey.