Forgetting i’m not in the city anymore / last night’s lover (hater)

hand slips through bus stop glass. it never stops raining here

god closed his umbrella and watches cobblestone water damage

brick murmurs into small neighbourhood sludge

nothing pretty grows though, just astroturf and fertilised weeds.

worms and wormlike people. adoration of their cyanide

makes sense because pain is love anyway right?

pain isn’t love in the square; it’s skinning your knees

in the skatepark. love is the dead pukeko next to you

reminding you of the infinite cycle we are in

lady macbeth is jealous. love is also the pukeko playing dead

reminding you that the cycle is a social construct

love is schrödinger’s pukeko and unfertilised weeds and the coach house

the dream is to go to the museum instead of being the exhibition

this town only makes sense as an abstract art show, maybe a movie set

someone should increase the budget because i’m getting bored

today’s coffee jitters shake me up but an open

window and music made by flowers turn me pleasant

the washer and dryer hum in the other room

i’m dressing for me only. that shirt marred by vodka

and his grasping now only for me. you and me?

me and the wind wrapped around my sweet head

let tomorrow be an orange grove.

let me send myself a good morning text

i love you and your tired hair. he’s one hell of a woman

a walk to the grocery store can be a gift

see the way we enjoy our mornings in different ways

the microwave song, the hot coffee spills, the piecing together

of things leftover from the night.

if i slept next to you in the night, i think i’d roll over and mindlessly

loop an arm around your body like the mountains pull the sun

toward them. holding each other