feel like i'm almost forcing myself to write. i just want it to come naturally on the days i need it to. anyways, here's a poem on memories.
I hate the smell of a freshly lit cigarette,
but love when the ash has settled into the crevices of the furniture-into its organs.
It reminds me of you, and our childhood-
no seatbelts in a ’99 Toyota.
A sliver of open window,
pinkies prodding through to feel the breeze.
I dislike the cold now too,
walking around like a coat rack,
stripping layers of sweaters and scarves onto empty seats.
I’m never warm enough-warmth used to be endless,
always chasing the sun down,
handheld torches and adventure hunting,
adventure being one more minute outside.
Winter was good once,
when the fields froze over and the ground toughened up.
Toughness too-I’ve lost that touch.
I wasn’t yet aware of myself-
of the choreography of my face and hands,
of how strange it looked to hold an umbrella after the rain had stopped,
of whether people could tell
I hadn’t thrown away my empty coffee cup.
I hold this just in case.
I hold that for fleeting warmth.
I have only two hands,
and youth slips through both.
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