Posture

I don't like this medium
It corrects my posture.
Posture is everything.
Juliet looks up
Dante travels down
Thoreau slouches over beans
And here I sit
Erect and miserable.

Apathy

If I wrote down anything
It'd be a letter to you
for everything you've done.

It'd scream of my insignificance
compared to your beauty
It'd weep in song for your touch
Everything good would pour out

We'd be raindrops clinging together on a windowsill
Or pages in a book holding tight to one another
We'd sail with masts full of wind
Our smiles breaking the sea
The day would seem as living nostalgia
The reds deeper, the greens lusher,
Our lips fuller, our mouths closer.

Left-Overs

It's not that I'm busy
It's not that I've done anything
It's that I'm lazy
It's here
It's reheatable
It's leftovers

Waiting

She rolled over and whispered 

"I don't love you."

Winter had taken all but one red leaf from the tree outside

I had delivered the rest to their plastic tombs

The branches were dry and fragile

Ready to pummel the cars below 

The air sat in your lung 

Maybe I expected it

I laid there faking a thought

She waited for my reply.