real talk... since i've gotten back home from chicago, i've felt disturbingly listless. i hate doing nothing. i hate worrying. whatever. poem three.
pacific standard time
dg,
you're usually the only one
up
who
keeps me sane at 5 am, my
preferred bedtime during the summer months
because the sun always bids me adieu
before it does you
on the california coastline
and we usually chat about silly shit
like queso cheese dips and the
absurdity of a restaurant being called
in and out and we'll discuss your dreams
however lofty they may be
of becoming a producer turned mogul
on some diddy shit
but last night, for you,
this morning, for me,
i called you up crying
something i rarely do these days
and i spit my problems out
like stale milk on the tip of my tongue
with passionate intensity as if i cried hard enough
they would be waiting on your doorstep
next to the morning paper
and in true demetrius style you listened
and told me to relax and chill.
while
i've heard that so many times before
from so many people who swallow
those very words when misfortune tracks them down
ive never seen you break a sweat
despite the circumstances the last three years
have brought you so when you say it i
chill
and quietly for hours we talk
about the things that really matter
on the fact that even you
get rattled from time to time and that
i'm far stronger than i'll ever give myself
credit for and what will happen to us
to all of us
in the year to come and
we laughed and we groaned and we grew
quiet
as moments ticked tocked into thin air
and i want you to know that after i hung up
the pain that, at first, seemed too much to bear,
a mere few hours later seemed
to have evacuated my broken heart,
leaving me with the capacity to sleep
for years we've been summer pen pals
having virtual slumber parties in june
becoming party partners in crime again
come august
but its good to know that
you care enough about me and
you'll never ever front
even though
you're three hours behind
