So be it this desolation. The rain from the day before
Hangs its residuals in the air. I am watching my friends
Drive off. The joy of being called friend.
How else will we understand
Ourselves?
Says Otessa Moshfegh complaining about
Writing too much to prescribe ourselves.
I remember wanting to be every shape
That would let me be inhabited into love.
My shadow holding my shape, eager to lunge
Into traffic despite an empty street. This still means
Someone is piloting. I am learning not to collapse my soul
At every exhale. It is hard not thinking of do-overs.
The Chevy Impala that could have given us the win
Still fresh like a little kid’s first wound from biking.
I remember watching Supernatural
In my first girlfriend’s house every weekend,
Still on the verge of believing I could have
Love. Of course the details elude me, of course
It did not mean I loved her less. I had love
And again after that, and again
I will love. My shadow weightless and tied to me.
My shadow weightless but still my shape.
I bring it back to the sidewalk as I walk
The empty street. The time spent recalling repeat
Conversations when I could have said more now.
But the joy of being called friend.
