Writing

I ran past the stores in Boston, throwing newspapers at houses. "Thank you!" I heard people call. I was passing out one of the biggest stories of the decade. The Boston massacre had been done.

I found a ring I thought I’d lost

in the bottom of my bag.

I haven’t seen it since last spring —

It’s funny, isn’t it?

All these months,

I thought it gone,

all this time, I’ve just been

carrying it.

No more promises to go to bed earlier

No more making up meaning for the mess on the floor,

No more pages all across my desk.

No more of the big clothes to hide what I don't have. 

Should I continue this lie

that I am finding this world to be okay?

That I'm comfortable as I worry every time I 

show my shoulders because 

what if

this is the day that I'll remember with

I never thought I'd wonder

how it would feel to touch your face

but now the thought sticks to my skin, tangles

in my hair. I never thought 

your eyes would be anything but blue,

I stared up at the popcorn ceiling. A record spun in the background, and lying there I had never been more aware that the world was spinning too– time was flying, my youth was slipping away.