The washing machine flushing water through his dirty clothes sounds distinctly like summer rain, and reminds me of you.
The ants on the floor annoy me so I crush them with my index finger, but since I’ve spilled instant oatmeal in the broad crack between the floorboards, I think they’ll just keep coming back.
Zounds kneads my torso and falls asleep.
He looks especially like a baby today, but I spy a tiny cobweb hanging from the white whiskers above his green eye and realize he’s just a child.
I wonder how old he is and when he was born.
I’m going to a lighthouse, on the shores of a cliff, at the southern most point, of Rhode Island tomorrow.
I’m hoping it will be breathtakingly serene, and at that point, I will experience a subliminal psychosis.
when I turned 22,
there was an eclipse on the first day of spring,
and I couldn’t find the moon, but I knew it was there.
I mean, to put it bluntly, I’ve always loved you