I used to roll your name around in my mouth like a lost tooth.
As time went by it turned into something bittersweet and rotten,
its roots gripping my gums like a jealous lover.
I still shudder whenever I have to sit down in that dentist’s chair.
Once in middle school my father hit a deer with his car
on an open road late at night. I remember the headlights shining
on that deer’s eyes, and how they never once wavered.
If deer could commit suicide, I believe that one did.
Existence is a lonely thing.
Glass jars without fireflies
are even lonelier.
The ache in my bones is constantly telling me all that I am not,
informing me of my weaknesses and every book
I have yet to read. I gave up believing I could finish them all.
Even the most avid reader in the world
can never get to the bottom of their collection:
I like to think I can still burn holes in you
with only my fingers.