This Is How It Is
Like ink
blotted with water
feathering out black
spreading into little rivers
like veins
like trails of blood
like the ambiguity
of your glacial glances
at the coffee shop
like when you leave
without saying goodbye
Like paper
stretched and silent
waiting for words
holding space
like sunlight
like milk
like that cream colored dress
I wore to the park
like when you pinched my sleeve
and said I was pretty
Like ink
stamped on pages
haunted figures
staining white
like shadows
like catastrophes
like disappointment
slammed down on expectations
like when we got out of the taxi
and you didn’t walk me home
Like paper
pressed to silk
sliding under fingertips
slipping into nothingness
like sleep
like amnesia
like pale twilight
in the West Village
like when you brought her to the party
and I stepped outside alone.