this shall be the loneliest summer.
most somberest summer of summers.
the sky is full of emptiness.
pink and blue waft downwards,
the small cat speaks
and there is nothing else.
this backyard is too small. i miss my oldest friend
the oak tree. he was
my mars-bound rocket, rickety pirate ship, and
hiding place to a million fairies or more.
i miss laughing more than i cry. i miss
having someone to laugh with. i miss
any form of real
raw healing,
emotional relief.
summer is suppressed in my chest
this backyard is not big enough. it cracks.
the patio ruptures. it splinters.
but the earthquakes in california do not always come from the ground.
i feel them in me.
they hurt and hurt and hurt.
i shake.
i abandon and am abandoned in return. i miss
twining bracelets made of flower stems around another's wrist.
girls are so beautiful. boys are overwhelming.
i miss the soothing feminine company.
there is no one to take my picture. no one to cajole a smile out of my weeping face.
the tears weigh my lower lids down
like fruit. it's tasteless.
bags under my eyes the size and color of plums.
i hate this.
writing stings.
it's antiseptic to my wounds.
i miss the days when
it was more like
fertilizer to a flowerbed.
it was ginger to a sizzling stir fry.
it was maraschino cherries atop a crackling drink full of ice.
i don't know if i still can.
