this morning

i woke up in a chair this morning,

underneath my sweatshirt.

the warmth in the air and the tangible progression from spring to summer

won't let me go a minute without thinking of you

and how a year ago at this time i was the happiest i ever was in my life.

such is life, a long winter comes and then the mountain crossing is impassable,

and there might as well be time zones between me and where i wish to be.

i was young, athletic, and flushed with youth and drink and neurotransmitters

coursing through my veins, breeding happiness in my brain.

a long slow bleed has dripped it all out of me since then.

the smell brings some back, but mostly the pain of the loss;

the smell of her hair, and spring, and at first my lips twitch into a smile

from muscle memory, or something like that, it's not real at least.

i try to write in these elevated prose but always fall back to colloquial bullshit,

and i can't escape who i am. i think it just caught up to me,

this morning, so many beautiful girls on this campus and i'm sitting inside

pitying myself with my eczema and my heavy heart,

and my little bottle of rattling pills that makes me feel warm when i'm holding it.

i need to shower,

i want to remember more how it feels

standing by the beer pong table after winning the track new england championships

being drunk in west hartford, holding a box of wine.

that backpack i used to carry, full of 40s and condoms and in general just

the smell of summer.

brett has sold the house since.

the backpack has always had a broken zipper but now the front pocket is

contaminated with far too many used condoms,

knotted into balloons and stuffed back in their wrappers.

i always intended to toss them after i got off her road.

i hate who i am now.

the sooner i accept that i will never be young again the easier it will be.

but i can never accept that.