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Gentler

When you think of me,
of shaking hands, of late nights, of burning
dinner on the stovetop.
Be gentle in your memories,
I was fragile when you met me,
and
even more so now. 

Grandeur

A breakthrough, true and honest, progress not
just for the sake of it.
I’ve reached a point in my ramblings where I
can look back happily upon the past, the
stone etchings I’ve left.
I no longer hate everything that oozes from
my fingertips, melding with plastic, clacking,
keys, or too much ink in broken pen tips. The
papers and electronic documents housing 
musings, and have-nots, and what once was.
Oh, what is this?
Oh, oh, never mind.
My temporary lack of judgement or taste,
my grander delusion realized. 

My part

Whether you weather the long night or not,
your frozen fingertips rousing runaway flames.
No matter the advocacy, the willingness to
persevere. You will be forgotten. Your
survivor’s guilt sheds skin to reveal a deepest
emerald envy, and here you will sit, stagnant.
As it were,
I find myself welcoming the cold as an old,
dear friend, no longer to be kept at bay, but
to be accepted as I had wished so dearly.
If ever the memory of me crosses your mind,
you may go wandering, wondering where I
was left. Perhaps you’ll find this shell, a
testament to this unrequited loyalty.

January uh 24

I catch myself catching silly little feelings, about rebirth, and January first.
Feeling small, hopeful, like a child again at the smiling potential of a new year.
365 chances at burning dinner on the stove top, or chasing the dog, or kissing us goodnight.
The world keeps telling me to grow up, and maybe this year I will.
Though it seems so unlikely compared to the idealism set free on this cleanest of slates.
I hope for your sake (and some of mine) that this year’s resolutions evolve from self-told lies,
to something more concrete, complete.
One more chance at becoming more.

Data

Been finding comfort in numbers, the data
surrounding the human condition.
And I’ve never been a numbers guy, hell I
barely passed college algebra. You can
look it up pretty easily, just reach out to Millersville,
say you’re a would-be employer and I’m
sure they’d dispense my freshman year transcript.
I was un-tempered in my youth, too busy
pretending to be who I wasn’t.
Too addicted to the casual addictions.
But statistically, based on the sheer amount of human beings
on this planet, your most sacred, hated,
unabashed feelings are not wholly unique.
To whomever shares this condition with me,
I hope you are a numbers person because
I can’t make sense of anything, anymore.

Alcohol Abuse

I lack the endurance to be an alcoholic,
my eyes slipping way before my inhibitions.
Growing ever more comfortable in my skin as
it fuses to the bar stool, the stickiness of the
bar floor, my couch, John’s love seat, an oddly
ergonomic tree, and on and on as the
environment slowly deteriorates, ceding
ground to the growing need to be out of here,
out of this place, out of this fucking
conversation. Jesus, Chris we lack
the sympathy for your poor decisions. No, no when
the beer hits the back of my throat, my first
thought stretches to the comforts of my home,
the hand of my love, the soft fur of a too-
good dog. A physiological need to be away,
locked, under key, or at least that’s what I tell
myself, crying into the keystrokes at three am.