is that even a thing

today i am just so sick of my own company,
of this city.
sick of not having 'private' button's on my posts
because there isn't any mountain to 'go tell it on'
not one that i could walk to anyhow.
sick of the distance. the fact that it exists.
the fact that space exists. that it is so much bigger than i am or you are.
i'm sick of flowers wilting on my windowsills
and of toothaches and really-
it is really just about the space
and the flowers
and the way the waves curl in the ocean;
like a match
held up to a newspaper.

There are hours when everything feels like a giant secret i am keeping, but i cannot quite recall which shadows i'm forgetting to disclose.

a lantern in ?


--------------------------------------------------------------

I wanted to text you my brightening outlook in hopes
you’d forget all the troubles we’d run into in the gridded city
of Wednesday where the automatic windows of my rental car
wouldn’t roll up in a downpour and my debit card demagnetized
and I showed up so late so often and disheveled we missed
every night of the opera, but I hoped you might forgive all that
and fall in love anyway with the contemporary sense of me,
the Sunday, Sunday me now appearing, a bleached crane
strutting in shallow marsh water, an echo in reverse
gradual and deafening, the speck in your radiograph,
furious whitecap on your sudden horizon, dazzle
of a satellite fireballing out of some improbable orbit.

JASWINDER BOLINA