dry spell

train conversations are the worst. an awkward, pale handshake across laps, bags crammed under feet and half shouting your name, nice to meet you, over iphones and ear buds, rain slicker backs turned and daisy ringed hair bands. its eager eyes on the 71, sitting on a fire escape balcony with your michigan roommate turned best friend, smoking pot instead of going to your low paying job, singing songs that remind you of 6th grade, getting lost in berkeley, swearing to your mother on the phone because youre late. its bright clothes and shiny bangles, are these free treasures, the skinny street boy asks me, and my life is spread across concrete, rich, yet defeated. lonely against stark shark white sky. if he is the moon, then i am eclipsed, she says, a growl, a dark whisper, like black paint into sharp pointed night. i feel this way the last month i am alive, the last month before i have no idea what i am anymore. a gypsy vagabond, floats too close to the surface, bubbling over and babbling about. close wound, seal tight, lift gently, shake well, close to cover. rinse. repeat.