Trista.

I swear somewhere this works

In a parallel universe or another

world

or a different life,

we sit across from each other

at the kitchen table

and go over

the grocery

list. 

Trista.

The kinda blues

Like sad but not sad enough.

Like attention seeking.

Like I dunno, man. Most days she seems fine.

Like laziness and irritation.

Like anxiety but not full-blown panic.

Like not being able to get out of bed for three days-

but hey, what's three days?

Like never actually writing the last note,

just imagining the lines.

Like it's more of a river and not an ocean

but as far as I'm concerned

you can drown in either one. 

Trista.

I still remember you

as a little girl

who overwaters plants

because she doesn't know

when to stop giving. 

Trista.

I loved a man who was afraid to look at 

himself in the mirror but had no problem

looking at himself in my poetry.

Who could blame him?

I always wrote him better than he was.