San Francisco

i live
in a city
where
people escalate
beneath the ground
to travel past land.

darling;

where lies my admitting
when yours is sleeping,
on the very bed
that has divided our
together ness,
i watch your eyelids
closed and breathing,
and i noise the walls:

feet long for any association
of the familiarity of your skin
covering your bony ankles,
hands clumsily mismanage
the washing of the dishes,
i am bored
protesting your trance
with the sound of my own exhale
my own sighs, migrating murmurs,
deserted to plea with you:

please blanket my loneliness

i know your time is worthwhile,
but i dont owe you
a (or the) present,
just because
we were friends in the past.

yes, it is notable
that things grow
from our inside
to (protect) our outside.


like, for example, fingernails.

collected comrade

elizabeth guides hands
with words. soaks her senses
in honesty. grows anxious
like i, overconceptualization.

she allows herself to "feel at any given moment,"
i learned today
that meditating with your
former and future self
can beautifully replace any lack of spirituality
i feared
i encompassed. gratitude.

hush.

i will use that word correctly.

wind shakes bones,
the tree outside my home
is as alone
as i am
one.

naturally, i want to eat san francisco's (poet)ential. what a silly assumption.

the premature waking of eight small paws

chasing wind, and your beautiful hands

adjusting your tie, as you look at me,

"what were we thinking?"

love, we wanted life

to cover our floor (even/ly

when we could not).

the awaited opening of the welcoming door

(followed by a precise dance:

your legs are for their paws

a mere hug, a conversation 

of meows)

finally returning, and your exhausted hands

 removing your suit, as you look at me,

"this is our family."

a deliberate attempt

to find comfort in confessing
words to be read.