the dead poet society.

there’s something chilling

about visiting a

dead poet’s grave-

to stand under the dull

winter sun, watching the

wind disturb the notes someone

left for her and wondering

where she found the 

inspiration for  her

epitaph. 

melancholia.

driving with the window 
rolled down
in january. 
eyes scan the road,
check the mirrors.
counting the space between
this car and
the next-
one mississippi
two mississippi.
trying to stay focused,
the mind wanders.
fingers tap the car door,
the rhythm of an
old song. 
it ends as 
the car stops,
perfect. 
staring straight 
ahead, pull the keys
from the ignition and 
listen as it cools down- 
ticking, rattling.
studying the keys in hand,
the thought,
“how did i get here?”

midnight drives.

slouched in the passenger seat,
she stares at the clear night sky-
silence.
he slows the car,
winding country roads.
he doesn’t want to take her home
just yet.
she sighs and 
he inhales her sweet perfume.
is this the moment,
she wonders,
where she discovers that
she loves him?
“that’s the big dipper,” 
she says, pointing.
he quietly
agrees.

i've lost myself.

the sun is hot,

but the air is crisp and

cold.

my lungs stinging, 

i’ve got no where else

to go. 

he said i would resent you, but

that ship sailed years ago.

now, the winter air 

intoxicating,

i feel

alone.

intimacy.

she wears her clothes like a 

second skin. 

every time he peels them away

it feels new to him.

but

for her, it’s just

another

obligation. 

the penny.

it was just another cold winter day.

as i hurried toward the warmth of 

my room,

i saw a penny on the sidewalk

glistening from the light of the 

midday sun. 

i hurried on,

not wanting to stop to claim the

simple coin.

i’d pass this same penny again,

and again and

again.

each time, it’s color faded,

the sun’s light

dimming.

finally, as night fell and i walked to

my building for the 

last time,

i stooped to pick the penny up. 

it was cold, even

in my numbing hand, and 

i wondered how it went the whole day

unnoticed.

truly, it was a sign you had

meant it for me. 

i kept it in my pocket for days,

its smooth surface 

reassuring. 

when i tired of touching it

every time i sought the warmth

of my pocket,

i dropped it in my

coin jar.

now, lost amongst other coins

just as special as itself,

it waits to be

cashed in for

something

trivial. 

day dreams.

i find myself 

slipping

in and out of realities. 

some fantasies are 

dangerously appealing,

and i feel myself drifting

further with each thought. 

i wonder,

if i could stay in a world of

my own creation,

how quickly i would choose

to

abandon everything. 

let the night go on.

reaching out,

constantly.

screaming to be saved. 

no one feels like being

a hero today.

music blasts somewhere and 

the smell of alcohol

permeates the hall. 

i feel desperate, but

it seems everyone else feels

fine.

i stop reaching,

reclusive.