early morings//late nights at the bridge

i drink my coffee black
with a hint of honey, just like she liked it.
sip on the bitter brew, condition myself to like it.
i hold my cigarette in the corner of my mouth, like she did,
practice smoking it to the nub like she taught me to.
i ignore the rain outside,
imagine cold spring sunrises on the porch
and try to finish my work,
all the while dreaming of sleep
(where you will visit
simultaneously cursing me and
asking for my forgiveness).

stokely green eyes

bad poetry. whats new.

i wrote you a poem today.
i lovingly sketched it out by hand,
crafted you beautiful images of the sounds and smells
of a hampshire spring night.
i wrote you a poem and then i threw it away,
decided to stick with safer words already written.
i wrote a friendly message at the beginning of the note
and another line of encouragement at the end
folded up the piece of notepad paper ever so carefully,
made sure the creases were perfect, the lines matched up.
i put it in my pocket and went to go find you,
only to find that you had already left.
and so i tore up the note in tiny little pieces and
walked home in the cool, spring rain.
oh well, everything happens for a reason.
thanks for curing my writer's block.