Thursday, March 15, 2018


I'm made of coffee, you're made
of tea;
I'm stronger, but you
last longer

and you somehow seem
both older
and younger than me—though not particularly
in a nice way.


After so much time, my body
has gotten heavy
and increasingly thick
as a textbook;

meanwhile, you've gotten slim
as a bookmark, indispensable
to keeping my place—but not exactly
in the right way.


And I now look a lot
like a whole pre-stretched canvas
splashed with cadmium yellow paint,
but in your latest

Instagram photos,
even the evergreens
appear more like seafoam—though not really
in a loud way.


Finally, my mind seems
to stick out now—it points straight up
like the
quills on a porcupine, and I no longer think

anyone should go around unconsciously
trying to handle me;
Your brain, meanwhile
is all folded up

like a beautiful swan
would be
inside a small porcelain
pedestal sink—but not particularly in a proud way.