i hope it isn't all a show

oh, but i hope it is, too.

you come back

You come back into the room
where you've been living
all along. You say:
What's been going on
while I was away? Who
got those sheets dirty, and why
are there no more grapefruit?
Setting foot on the middle ground
between body and word, which contains,
or is supposed to, other
people. You know it was you
who slept, who ate here, though you don't
believe it. I must have taken
time off, you think, for the buttered
toast and the love and maybe both
at once, which would account for the
grease on the bedspread, but no
now you're certain, someone else
has been here wearing
your clothes and saying
words for you, because there was no time off.

my grandma started disappearing again (or rather appearing as someone elses)

you, too, seem to have a way of evaporating.

evading me
somewhere in a bottle
or a text message
or my saturday nights

reception

you left the words porchside for me to stumble upon.
and they meant much more than they should.

thank you for the warmth, even if it wasn't love
but instinct

and thanks for watching
as i walked on
saying nothing.

it's a sin to tell a

words have a way of exploding; we forget that, you and i.

maybe language isn't always such a blessing
and?
maybe it's what makes us, us,
the most foolish.
the most guilty.

not to sound immature, but

i'm growing up. really.

what the protagonist learns

we wait so long for our lives to begin; we plan to attribute every worthwhile memory to that vacation, that job, that transition, that new beginning.

but it all happened a long time ago. almost 22 years for me. and it has been an adventure. and i remember way more about fireflies, s'mores, evening walks, and naps than i remember about exotic travels and new beginnings.

and i am living my life. and i am happy.