December 2009
It’s ever so peculiar—
how we tend to find something new
to say about the same things
whether they are old or unimpressive
or unamusing
that we assume words addressed to
anonymous audiences are really
calling our names or looking at us
sideways
And it’s not quite right
that I told a man it’s a lot easier to tell my
secrets to a holiday card with a calligraphy
pen than to actually vocalize them
out loud
that we keep living our lives after
parts of them end—not stages like
adolescence or relationships—but
separate worlds
It’s appalling—
the way I forgot about the boy I
abandoned when we were children
and that I didn’t realize it for
five years
that I am so thoughtful of these things
in coffee shop moments
but that they escape me in exhales
and regularly forgotten motions
Yet I—we—forget
We do
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