1. I am sitting in a breakfast cafe, alone, as I am always alone, when sitting in cafes. The sun is shining on my back, etching the beach on my shoulders and you'd think that this is the setting to the perfect morning, but it's already one pm, and I am feeling ungrateful. My cup holds the slight taste of dirt, or salt, or something more sinister in it's brown depths, and I can't get over it - still keep on sipping. Chewing over and over on the fact that there is no apple pie today, that it is the anniversary of something dark, suffering immensely over my own minor indecisions, or moments that could be let go easily if I would only loosen my grip. Like the moment when someone simply pauses, draws breath, hesitates over whether to blow the fluff from a dandelion - to be loved, or loved not.
2. All of the best poems happen in the shower. Maybe I'm singing along to some old blues song, or getting high on the iridescent foam, but something strange spreads, like steam over my own obscured reflection, something in my stoppered ears triggers a waterfall of words, and I am repeating the title phrases, pressing the names of these poem zygotes into my palms, and trying to memorize them until I can press a pencil to my forehead. An open reply to the wrong lover's letter. An missive from a spurned suitor of Oedipus. I'll remember the first line, and the last - never the whole the thing. The phone always rings when I'm standing in a towel, scribbling in marker on the frosted mirror.
3. The last act is always the hardest. Curtain call on a lover's affections. She can always feel it coming - he is always merely the harbinger of stories, chapter book of her own sorrows read out loud and backwards. He will help her sound out all her most egregious mispronunciations, but it will always be too late - the sentence altered by the context, and she knows that honesty has always been her heart's undoing. All the bruise inside her, still too slow to pull the punches - she is just a fraction of a second off, these days.
4. All the best ideas are stillborn. They merely sail on the seas of romantic summer notions - brush by our world, never touching the shores with both feet. Their toes are always bare. The sand is always sucked right from beneath them, becoming the water again. Here, they shed tears for us, backsliding towards fear. They dissolve into salt.
September 14th, 2017