adulthood is spending days searching craiglist, thrift stores, value city furniture, rooms-to-go, ikea, etc. to compare prices on sofas so i don’t have to drop a thousand dollars i could have saved but also don’t have to live with a dirty, people-i-don’t-know-probably-made-out-on-this second-hand couch
I know what is making me sad when I don’t know what is making me sad, she said.
Don’t Apologize for the Memories.
I wish they wouldn’t say get over it,
People aren’t bridges you cross
and the mind isn’t an attic you hide away
small boxes of the past inside,
unless you’re writing poetry,
where we pretend that the metaphor
is an accurate representation,
rather than an illusion,
because it’s eloquent.
there’s no behind to leave the past in.
You’re trapped inside yourself—
no vacancies, no moving men.
What you do is move through.
You take November 26th
the day he said you would always be
his with the sun in your eyes, orange
leaves passing behind his glowing
and you hold it.
One day you’re walking and it’s
November two years later—
you see a man standing under
falling leaves on a different street
in a different town, maybe, and
you’re back two years like
a cruel wind pushed you, like
a cruel game and you drew the card:
rewind to the time your heart
didn’t know whether to stop or
fall apart or just go numb.
And you turn up your collar.
And you put your hands in your pockets.
And you know it isn’t him.
But you feel it in your hand again—
you hold it.
Memories like these don’t stay hidden,
they don’t stay bound. They don’t
still like quiet waters underneath your feet,
they fall like comets, like arrows, they
come to burn and scar all over again.
They plot the path of your life with
holes and bumps and pitfalls;
as you have them, as you hold them,
what you do is move through.
you don’t need to write about love to write about love.
I bet you think I write for you.