dedicated to charles.

[transcript]


a letter to my friend who lives in their parent's basement

hi there
how are you?
is it tuesday?

if it's tuesday 
then we'll talk about our to do lists
you'll outline with dissatisfied metaphors
the extent of your chores still weighing on you
at four pee emm
because you're not sleeping these days
and waking is harder than sleeping
so you had a late start 
but you've taken care of the dogs 
before yourself 
like an exhale
so i probably only have you
for ten minutes more

is it november?
if it's november you just left me
that basement sublet you adored 
filled to the brim with friends
and friends
and lovers of yours and mine
with whom we both spent more time 
than each that night in order 
to stretch the evening as 
far into not really happening
as possible
because the weeks that followed were tiny clenched fists
you and me
we wish our hands weren't as small as the rain
but it is november 
and every evening is a prayer
and computer chat screen
and hyperbole
hyperbole
don't worry its like you're next to me
i'll visit
we'll visit
ha ha existentialism
and isn't it all temporary anyway?

is it cold out?
if its cold out, your foot is broken
and we've learned a new language
despite both hating the police state
we worship the patron saint
detective olivia benson
who we both dream of
bedding
or at least little spooning
or not admitting to staying up til three am fan fictioning
with cabot
and we flood each other with
gpoy wallposts like postcards
annoying our internet friends
because its too cold out
to be literal

is it my birthday?
if its my birthday then you're worried about me
we both felt a little lost after the law & order binge
no longer repeating 
the word 'heinous' in our sleep
we're lost after february and in need of a new 
blanket
we don't talk as profusely
although our humour remains a proclivity
of the ache
under our ribs

am i drinking red wine?
if i'm drinking red wine
it might be a whole bottle
alone in my room
like i did last august after he died
like i did in january when i couldn't breathe
like i did three weeks ago when 
they took him away and i started rewatching
grey's anatomy because i couldn't find 
a way to cry
you don't hear from me
it is mostly emoticons 
and days apart message about needing to get laid
lists of our parents flaws
and chores
we go back to chore lists
the proud windows you cleaned of spiders
the shed rebuilt
the dinner that made them all so proud
and your vocabulary 
i know they can't see more than your coke bottle glasses
not the rhinoceros heart
not the truck engine chuckle
not the way you fold your feelings like laundry
so that there is always an extra drawer for 
other hearts

is it your birthday?
if its your birthday 
than i have written this poem in my head
but i do not manage to get it to you
i did not get out of bed
and only managed to send you
less than three
sometimes we only manage
less than three 
you and me

is it spring?
if its spring than i rolled over in bed and
went for a walk
it was that tree
the tree that hasn't looked the same since the backyard
job my landlord did last fall except for today
today at five thirty three it spoke to me
and told me to get coffee yet
or at least stand on the sidewalk
where the lilacs have intoxicated me
and i found this poem 
along with a postcard from another
in my mailbox
and i remembered that i love my mailbox
and i fear my mailbox
like my friend tells me she is learning to see herself
in her new city but still 
thirsts for
that grown over backyard
that the grown ups want to tidy
like the crumbs off our laps
so lets fold our hands there instead
and talk about next weekend

is it next weekend?

runawaybride