Staccato

the first time you write a poem in 2 years

there is glass under your shoes, sparkling like September frost.

You are wishing your shoe soles were not paper thin, so you could dance on it,

the shards sparkling like snowfall,

the crunch a staccato as you turn.

instead you step on them,

feet tracing the edges. of someone's broken windscreen,

until you have reached the corner.

your body has settled for once.

you're probably wrong,

But,

you think you know its ins and outs right now,

the fading birthmark on your wrist,

the half-thickened trail of hair down your stomach

caught between doses of testosterone

as your mind decides if your pride lets you use family funds while your resumes continue

to receive empty voids

you are older than you have ever been,

to quote a podcast.

the first time you write in nearly two years

your resume output mirrors a frantic 8 bar solo,

the quiet silence of response

the band's break, listening

for when you finally play that riff that catches

enough to get a reply.

you are 21,

exhausted and bored in pair,

plus one degree

and down at least one mental illness

feet tracing city blocks

that you have known for 4.5 years,

wondering where comfort becomes stagnation.

dollarama headphones playing tinny love songs,

at once both calmer

and more burnt out

than you have been

before.

.

the first time you write in two years.

you wish your heart still ached.




Grey is a recent grad, and currently works doing archery and some activism. They are on a quest to find a bbq pork bun in mtl that is as good as the one they had in flushings in ny.




Photograph by Pratap Singh