a preview of summer: romance by humidity

Learning to be a better phone person. But I just prefer written words a bit more.

Vain

This poem
is not
about

you.

The phrase, “I was just thinking about you”

is a great thing to say and to receive.

do you have nice teeth

then I will kiss you

Some overgeneralizations about life that should be fixed, otherwise

  • That we are alone. False: I have you, you have her, she has him, he has them. They have us.
  • That there is never enough free time. If you think that, then you need to meet this dude.
  • That life after postgrad is no life. 
  • That being forward, is not the same as being honest.

slow, down.

I keep forgetting to slow, down. To not feel the need to rush to class, to wake up just a bit earlier during the day and just…sit. Not think, not ‘do,’ not anything. Light a candle, smell the scent and just ‘be.’ Sometimes you need those days; unwind and decompress, decompress and unwind. I keep telling myself to slow, down, even when the inevitability of ‘time passing by’ seems to be zooming past me. Knocking me by the elbows, not giving me enough time to stand up and say, ‘hey, calm down.’

I stopped biking to class (partially because of the snow), but also because even though biking means a five minute commute rather than a 15 minute walk, I lose those 10 solid minutes to myself. To listen to music, to dodge the snow, to just…’be.’

Slowing down doesn’t mean moving in slow motion. I still want life at a rapid pace, but just for me to experience those moments in lag-ged cycles. Sitting on a bench and eating my bagel. Watching a man’s face break out in a wrinkled smile.

Slow-down.

Darling, you’re psychotic. Back off.

Dear Sir, You are experiencing ‘sublime melancholia.’

mahogany marmalade

He was not coming back – she had reached that conclusion months ago. But in the midst of it all, the unyielding possibility that his coarse mahogany boots would dribble against the floor and she would be sitting on the couch – that she had bought before him – waiting for him, she decided it was better to keep the jar of marmalade half-eaten, in case he returned.

I don’t know his name. I want to know his name.

I don’t want to be on your mind.

New Media Journalist & occasional poet. Intrigued by conflict journalism. Curating the unfiltered consolidation of my consciousness. Just enjoy. Now in New York, NY. Follow @aprilmayparker