GreyBean

Please don’t ask me if I’m okay. 
The question makes me want to cry.
And I think I’m going to run out of tears
to cry
by the end of tonight. 

I’m silent when she tells me.
Days? Days?
No. No. 
No, it was supposed to be  
months. 

She asks me if I’m okay,
and I nod my head—
a default response. 

Spare bottle caps,
stranded paper clips,
misshapen and bent in 
strange angles. 
Little round buttons that come in
small plastic bags with shirts,
old leather books
that smell like wet cardboard

I want to write a poem about singing,
but I can’t—
then I would sing the poem.

I want to write a poem about love,
but I can’t—
then I would cry over the poem. 

I want to write a poem about dancing,
but I can’t—

If there’s one thing I wish for, 
it’s that all the bitter
and hateful words in our world
will morph
into colorful pieces of candy. 


 

I know your face like the back of my hand. 
And today, I was told that I only have 
a month left
to see your face. 

I think I understand it now. 
Life is a clock,
a clock with a clear beginning,