Historias Verdaderas de Vidas Pasadas

These days, my mind has gotten vulnerable and it makes me uncomfortable like an itchy gray sweater.

Here I am at nearly one in the morning. Full of ideas busting at my hairline, how do I get them out?

So do I take off the sweater and shiver, or do I adjust?

"It's a heart that the both of you made, I won't rest until I break it"
Take things as they come and do not pay attention to anything. Correction! Pay attention to everything and savor the details. Reflect on the way his pupils expanded when he talked about Fugazi being on stage, how her choice of scent was the same as her mother's, how you're skin dragged across his unshaven cheek barely unfit for that of a man's, and how sweet the breeze was that one morning you both felt like death. Take a photograph while you're there, and mail someone a postcard.

Maybe I'll send you one back.

P.s. Class gave good reviews on my first and last ever poem. Vague, intense, lyrical, and plain old me.