the late spring leaves shudder outside,
the shutters rattle in the wind,
the sky the same grey as before.
my feet are covered in dirt, nails
grow long, untrimmed. i sharpened them
a little while ago, when i thought
a partner sat along my side.
they may have been the wind, un-licked
lips parted for a kiss present
wherever i stray with weak legs.
spring is closing before its--
my affection has stopped its
lingering for an imagined
life among my love. this is a
life where they hug my quiet sighing.
this is a curse because it repeats.

today was a warm winter day. as it rained outside, dewy droplets formed on everything you could touch or see. a little earlier, when it was darker outside, i had thought the air was stigmatized; my heart inverted on itself because i saw an apparition of myself across the yard, gently tapping the undersides of leaves. i was so determined to not see my own face, that i left home early for the bus.

across the way, hoover ave, i saw my friend, nina, looking at her phone under her red umbrella. dressed in pastel, i was struck by the impulse to caress her hair, soft and hanging over her chilled cheeks. to get to the other side, it must have been my crunching footsteps that made her raise her gaze. "hey." i exclaimed, "do you have gum by any chance?" as usual, she didn't respond. instead, she curled her fingers into a bunny and reached for my hand. i don't remember getting so close, but soon i was under the umbrella as well, holding her sweaty palm.

"i didn't finish the homework." this time she did respond, "not new." "hmm." i hummed and asked, "john offered me a joint yesterday; have you tried it before?" "nah." something about the ways her fingers shifted prompted me to ask, "how did you sleep last night?" after a long pause, the bus softly rumbled as it pulled in from the distance and came to a stop. she let go of my hand and stepped onto the bus' steep platform, almost determined to get out of the drizzle. as i got on, she smiled, shook excess water off her umbrella, and said, "i didn't, really."

waiting for her to shift down the aisle, she added, "someone had their lights on all night; i was convinced it was actually the daytime; and it was so warm, too, that i had pull the blanket up till my feet touched cooler air." last night, too, i hadn't slept with a blanket over my feet, so i said, "hm, same." and settled into the tight seat next to her.

my mother told me "tama" meant "jewel," whatever that means. maybe how my lips squeeze together and barely touch as I pronounce the "w" or how the "l" sounds so much like an "r." my mother knew a lot about a foreign language, and she tried to teach me, keeping her face close to mine, as if she was smelling my cheek, and trying to look me in the eyes as she airily whispered to me when i looked at different things. who was my father? idk? my mother, perhaps. i'm tempted to say no one taught me to sneer, grunt, or spar, but if that were the case, i guess i wouldn't know how to right now. "tama" means the fortune to have had them; if not for them, i would not know. "tama" means my past, stored in the box of my mind or straw left to dry between a crooked pine's roots. "ttaammaa" i breathe, looking for the smell of forest fire in the air.

edit:
i'm resting my head next to my torso, where i smell that same snow-furred buck, like the ash from that forest fire. "father? mother? me?" except the curve of his back is different, and one moment he might be here, and the next gone. "where?" except no matter; i still smell the straw under the crooked pine's roots festering. i'm tempted to blink, to check whether i am asleep or awake, but if my eyes are already closed, maybe i will mistakenly open them. if what i see is the same, i could have been dreaming about reality or i was awake the whole time. "what do you make of it?" the snow-pelted buck asks. i hadn't noticed him approach. "make of what?" he's looking at the ground again. "this." he points to a strange track. finally i say, "it looks like a crow's." he smells it next.

~
these r 2 sep moments in time

i want to see a waft of falling snowflakes against the midnight sky, so i slowly look up. the air is static and dry, so still that if i were to lie down, the rise and fall of my chest would still tell me that i'm moving. i see small white dots drift randomly downwards. the sky is a deep blue-gray, and light grey stars peep through the frothy clouds. the dry air stings my eyes, so i blink them, slightly irritated and searching for a place to sleep. large rocks unresponsive and deposited lie next to a young birch tree to the right. i usually think that in those nooks and crannies i will find gems, like bells that ring so quietly that the air seems to fuzz, or thin strands of wampum. i can't make the wampum, and there's nothing i can do about that. so, these gems are miracles of the endless forest. i think my thoughts imitate a number slide puzzle, but...

i happened upon poppy flowers. it was like they were looking at me, and i didn't know what to do. i was going to sit beside them, but the ground was saturated, so when i stepped forward w my right foreleg, the spongy soil squelched, pushing rainwater up to my hoof. i smelled petrichor; i thought it smelled nice with the poppies. i could've found hard ground, but i didn't want to move bc i thought i might offend the forest, poppies, dirt, etc.. if only the poppies' petals were dry, airy, soft like a finch's down feathers. i touched the tip of my nose to a petal, and i thought it's texture was velvety. "who's to say that they aren't?" i guessed. chirp. chirp. chirp. i caught a waft of another stag. chirp. chirp. when i turned my head left, i saw a snow white coat. its neck was bowed to reach a mushroom growing low on a sapling. chirp. chirp. its coat was brighter and more blue than other white coats, so i thought its dirt and dust might be falling to the ground. chirp. chirp.

my calico kitten-a calico kitten-sleeps with her siblings on the pastel pink soft blanket-bedding of a basket. the night is silent, except for the whur of a portable air conditioner. it sits under a low worn coffee table, which holds a cheap plastic cup of water. the faucet drips into a flat porcelain dish resting on the floor's flood-drain."grr" she coughs slightly, adjusting herself so she leans slightly towards her older brother. one can see him trembling, his hairs lax yet upright. i want to go to sleep, so i can stop thinking about the kittens, pastel colors, and hair, but it doesn't do any good to go to sleep. i just have to stop thinking abt it.