waxing crescent

Suddenly you’re laying on the stomach of the boy you love and looking at the moon. Just laying there thinking about what Alysia said.

About writing happy poems.

And it makes you wonder why life is happening to you, because you never thought it could be like this. Broken families and broken people don’t lead to a perfect Jake Cooper. The fact that the universe has hiccuped on this one scares you.

When the clouds hide the moon you remember when you were twelve in that apartment, and when you were fourteen in that car, and when you were sixteen at that park bench. There’s still shaking legs and words at your ear and you’re still double checking every bald man over the age of forty. 

The clock meets 1:24 and you’re sad you missed 1:23. Perfect order doesn’t come very often. Not right now, at least. Right now you’ve got chaos and a bottle of wishy-washy on your doorstep, crying in the cold. Neither of them are close to 1:23, and that makes you hurt. 

A hand on the curve of your hips reminds you that nothing comes back, but a touch on the small of your back reminds you that the real things

the good things

always do.