what to do with this.
this journal of poetry i’d found.
i can’t quite put my finger on it.
excitement like
this.
it’s like – – –
this feeling i had once,
driving into the city as a teen.
i was with a friend. i didn’t get out much.
didn’t go to the city.
my family didn’t have a car.

but like before the first time i ever
smoked
weed – – –
i knew i loved it.
the city.
i loved getting high.

“you don’t get out much, huh?”
no.
we didn’t have much then.
and i was starved.

the priest brought bread and peanut butter – – –
so not starved that way.
starved in the way adventure
can be a drug.

“maybe i’m not alone.”
that’s how i’d describe this feeling.
i’d
rarely felt it before.

maybe once, in your arms.
in your small room.
staring at the wolves in the spackle ceiling,
vinyl turning forever,
when you’d read me your poems,
and i’d read you mine.

-

i told lies to carve out space for you.
when you lied, it felt like revenge.

i read an article the other day– – –
revenge hits the brain like
a
drug.
it even shows up
in brain scans.

i doubt that’s why
you walked into my NA meeting last week,
saw me leaning off six months in the gym
and didn’t say a word,

but trust can be a hunger pain.

-

you: “i felt so alone before i met you.”

i remember that moment vividly.

also you: “if you’re fucking other people, let me know so i can do my thing too.”

that part i forget. recency bias.

-

you sat alone in the back of the church hall,
in those uncomfortable plastic chairs.
i don’t know if you threw a dollar in the collection bin.
couldn’t bring myself to look at you straight.

-

“maybe we’re not alone”
is what i wanted to say.

show you these new poets i’d found.

because since you’ve been gone,

i don’t
get out
much.