Stray
This is not a premonition
this is the way it is
and the way it is, is the way not
the way contrary
This is not a manifesto
but an obit
of you in me
I’ve never been so high
This is not an apology or an apotithenai
it just the bitters,
the roots, the pedals,
soothing my hearts spasm
This is not me reminiscing or me hypothetical-izing
it is just the sediment of a bottle wine
at the bottom of a glass bottom of the barrel
the ashes of cigarette butts
This is not a dialogue
this is a four-paged flower stationary dismissal
of a ten-page blood, sweat, tears
of three new moons
This is not me crying on Sundays
this me weeping, whimpering in my dreams
trying to figure out what this bright light is
at the end of this tunnel I’ve effaced
This is not the kindness of my nature
I’ve left bruises on my orbits
raising fist while putting you through hell
hurting your feelings
This is not me
a waif
a foundling
just a stray.
