If I looked close enough, maybe I could still catch the faint traces of lint drifting in the air from his clothes and his hair. He never vacuumed. His clothes were wrapped in scented trash bags and thrown into the backseat of someone else’s car. I sat at his desk, digits flitting across the screen and keyboard. Numbers and words turned into many little games and suddenly the table was far too small for this charade. A new day with a side of a strange cough and a glimpse of tea-stained mugs waiting quietly on the countertop. Little tired footsteps on porcelain became the melody I had grown accustomed to. I handed him his neatly packed things, and in exchange he lent me his ear. Then it turned to little blue bubbles. The strings connect us. Ma vacuumed his bed over twenty times in the morning before calling it quits. The traces of him were always overwhelming. It was always never enough.

his name is a jumble of triangles,
circles and squares
when she wrote it on the first page
of the notebook meant for
her
    
she looked at him
a tray of seasoned fries shared
some old song in the back
singing about love;
of course he would know
    
he would crack a joke
a brief smile meant for her
she wanted to understand it
but she laughed, she was
laughing with him
    
endlessly the sound
replayed, over and over again
before she slipped into bed
and dreamt of a world
they live happily ever after
    
shy & quiet, she was
and he was everything
but
    
again and again
she wanted to know
if he felt the same
so hurry &
don’t leave
hug her before you go

the cold bites back, and the wind does not exist in
sunny california. difference? between
cloudy and gloomy. it's wet and there's ice,
and i'm dressed in nothing but jeans, blue wool, crocs,
admiring a closed loan shop, no street tacos yet,
but a pizza shop firing up their stoves, ovens,
the yeast and olive oil pressed into bowls of
dough, to form nothing but endless
platters and platters of margaritas, pepperoni,
a side of breadsticks.

a man curls up like a kitten seeking warmth on a
bus bench, waiting for the great big fireball to
embrace everything again.
but it is winter, creeping into the shadows,
into my blankets, into nighttime when the rain begins
to clean up when no one else is awake

the moon smiles fondly, and the insomniacs
find solace in the peace of night, when their time
is in no one else's hands but their own,
not in the hands of their mother, warm by
observing the rest of the world
from their perch like a ****** of crows
waiting for the next fallen fry or crumb that
falls in their line of sight

there’s a woman walking, in her mid thirties
and holding a bag of tomatoes, i think
it's not coincidence; she looks like an aunt or
grandma i've seen at church, and there’s a
man probably in his twenties who trails after her
not far like a son

dissolving;
the shadows of a faint memory
are left behind by palms of a stranger,
grasping ahold of the glassy walls of my heart;
but your eyes drift away as if to tell me
i never held a moment in your eyes,
as if i was just a muse,
the briefest study
in your work in artistry;
so please
meet me back in five
if i matter

to you

there was a time when tripping on asphalt
rewarded you a kiss to the broken skin,
a bandaid & a warm hug. the air
often smelled like rain & cut grass
after lunch in the cafeteria

and i always wore
a helmet and knee pads when
i went biking with dad. i felt funny
up until the moment i’d
squeezed my brake too hard
and fallen off my bike.

a thrilling game tag in the front yard under
orange skies of august was
soon quenched by a cold sip of caprisun.
dad sat on a lawn chair
grilling only what could be hot dogs,
meat patties, and bell peppers that i told him i
never really liked eating.

indigo blue only meant one thing:
a long day in the pool
clad in our arm floaties and
goggles and diving into the blue
like we would be doing this
forever & ever.

there was a time when i’d sit
on the pavement
wearing my ballerina sneakers,
watching how kids looked like ants
as they climbed onto the playground,
throwing woodchips at one another.

eating a bucketload of candy
was easier than eating dinner.
when the shadows grew at night
i’d leave the light on for too long
but watching superheroes
over a tub of ice cream was just the cure.
we’d build pillow forts &
take naps in them.

there was a time when the colors
were clear & bright, when movies
made everything feel like magic
and mom’s face was wrinkleless
and dad could stand in the garden for hours
and my brother was busy studying
and i only knew
summer & pillow forts