a solemn afternoon

hunched over coffee

it’s 6pm and Sunday

a solemn afternoon

there really isn’t more to do

but watch passerby

smile hand in hand

planning one another’s future

in the corners of their eye

sleeping in the afternoon

sleeping in

the afternoon

dreamless

I wake

nursing a wound

which as, I

breathe

it breathes too

a porous

little mouth

reminding

me, to rise

against

the death

of sleep,

do all

I can

to speak —

and dream —

and try

once more

to heal.

a boy can’t cry wolf

I knew I didn’t dream it,

as nausea fills the morning.

Sleeping well as a ranch hand,

counting sheep all afternoon.

I guess a boy can’t cry wolf

anymore, even when he’s dying?

 

 

 

old friend

I look at you

like an old friend

someone I haven’t talked to in a while

and with enough time together

you find it odd

how good it feels

to speak again, and again

in the morning and at night

I’m the lull of mid afternoon

taking pieces of my certainty that aren’t yours to have

leading me to remember, why

we stopped speaking

in the first place.

Though you know I’ll listen when you call.

I couldn’t be that cruel.