taffy jar, open book, open browser window.
you have voicemail.
mason jar of water.
pink post-it, hello, nathan yeoung, fix the wsr website.
baskets, pencils, bamboo plants with dying tips.
kimi's getting married, you know.
bookmarks, magnets, some girl lapped up the pamphlets of her own accord.
parisian kiss--black light for a mormon dance party, creepers with beer pong
when brycen buried kaylie's car in snow and the boys stayed up all night for fear of what we would do.
cheapskates, styrofoam cups with change in them for copies
haven't made them in months
and it feels so good to my insides, not churning or steeped in ink
or rather, toner
of seventy million colors
still have the pens
the pad of paper corner-rounded and lined in red
like a kiss of Pantone 187, red lipstick
real, this time
so real i feel, and my face flushes
i can't post that.
click, click, tap
what is that noise
i wish i could have a placemat for my life, to know where to set my plates
will i be one?
hope i'm not married
there's so much life to live before that time
but the salmon pink color reminds me of the flushing face,
for no explicable reason
is that a word?
i haven't written this way for so long
the obsession with perfection, coherence, and time
no tengo tiempo, amigos
only for taffy and boyfriends and sushi two days close by
taffy and boyfriend every day
clicking, tired eyes
sighs for music education and everything else on my plate
longing for a placemat