I am missing.

I miss writing scribble resembling prose, conversations going nowhere, rhythmical inflections predisposed.

I miss hands of youthful vigor, broken moments, guiding lights and triggers.
Fighting exhaustive battles between two poles, long defeats, stumbling, whereabouts unknown.

I miss the sentiment and platitudes, taking cities one pavement at a time, reliance and gratitude, longing again for the first time.

I miss the fight, the excuse to stay,
slipping under the cover of night,
in the getaway car so I can run away.

I miss the days, darkened rooms, the palpable dismay,
looking for corners where I can hide in the fray.
Under shelter, accepting surrender, the ambient light of this new day.

I am missing.

The Giving Up Tree

When the Giving Tree decided to take- it found out there was nothing worth having, the fate of all its past seasons and falling leaves, fell too late.

And you swore I’d get a second chance, but that was overturned 100x’s— all my apologies fake.

Just an endless negative trail of “sorry”– that word is as meaningless as “hello” when despondency leads to dead ends.


Hey Jon. do you remember that time we laughed until the sky appeared soft, molded by the brazen captivity of a 9-5?

We always worked until 6 or 7 anyway.

How was I supposed to know that the fleeting hours had constraints? We wouldn’t count on each other forever??

Maybe it was only me that needed you. The need to siphon and spit out exhaust. Feeding the endorphins caught in circulation; awaiting captivity. Anxious for release.

I don’t know what a gift is. I just steal from under the tree,

Regardless of what day, minus holidays and birthdays- no present will fill the void, no ego posed for stroke or accolade.

No stump awaiting me.