Under the late moon,
Would it be cozy or small?
you drove me with the scooter,
Like the way your write poems,
for trips to 7-Eleven,
in Moleskine notebooks,
it was two in the morning,
the profound way you use words,
with stationery;

I went to college like a bird swimming
like a woman burning in the 1700s
or like an atheist rising
I cut my nails like a narcissist killing himself
as if I’m a vampire taking a stake to the heart

I don’t let myself drive past dark
The black sky
Moonlight
Dozing off through passing lights.

Please understand I am not what you want.
‘What is a dream’ they ask of you. What is it that your heart desires?
And you imagine me.

The air in the shop was fragrant and warm, a stark comparison to the bitter cold and pungency of the alley outside. Rows of pretty tarts and manicured mini cakes lined the front window, glowing in the murky morning light and drawing wanderers towards the bakery. Rhonda worked behind the counter, hair pulled away from her face haphazardly, buzzing around the bakery. Her left arm was covered in bracelets, beads made of glass and plastic and clay and metal jingling against one another to create a unique melody that followed her everywhere. Rhonda greeted the customers swiftly, her sweet, mischievous voice complemented by the glint of wry wit that sparkled in her dark eyes.

Rattle, Bump, Thump
My head clunks against layered glass
Double panes reflect a stranger
She looks a lot like the past

There are pills under my nightstand.
The same ones tearing holes all over the house.
They’re tucked away in darkness and dust, forgotten caverns that only I can enter.
The same ones that wake us at night.