Fragments of the Day1Fragments of the Day by forgetyoself
I watched my mother tug the leash taut, pulling the dog back from the bushes, her body
slanted back, then pulled forward, until finally
she was triumphant. Walking the dog back to the house,
her face held a look of dignified frustration,
a look, I suddenly realized, she must have had sometimes for us, as kids.
Before me, my brother replicated one song from the Miles Davis record I had listened to
earlier that day, and then another. I was the Lucy at the piano, in awe of the way his fingers could go anywhere, roaming, and caught up in stillness for the songs he had just brought to life.
Coming HomeComing home is a strange thingComing Home by forgetyoself
Where is the smell of sweet earth?
Wandering numb from room to room
The ocean and infinite pines to meet the day?
Plugged in to a screen again
Where are the barnacles to cut my feet? The moss?
Strange convenience of sink and toilet
I feel unfulfilled
I wake up early out of habit
My soul knows what it's missing
To a fan and trimmed-in trees
Vitality tenderly carved out
I'll have to do my best back here
The gaping wound unfilled by dead space
Maybe I'll read
Searching for what I'm missing.
13-Year-Old GhostColorblind turned on.13-Year-Old Ghost by forgetyoself
I felt her slip into the backseat,
entirely unnoticed, floating in from somewhere.
As we moved along the road her presence grew stronger,
although she just sat there, not saying a word.
I remember when I was her,
curled up in front of this song and many others.
Sometimes she, the ghost of me, returns.
She fades in, wordlessly, to see what I've become.
She doesn't feel or smile, but leaves it up to me
as to whether I think she'd be proud. Or surprised.
The more the piano pulsed the more I wanted to reach my hand out behind my seat to her,
like an older sister does. I wanted to reassure without speaking.
The ghost of me has at once reappeared and been excised while I write this.
In the car, as the singer said "I am fine," she flitted away and faded through the window.
Leaves of GrassHow We LoveLeaves of Grass by forgetyoself
We secretly fall all over each other.
We’re yearning to fall all over each other.
Even when we’re big and brave with machine-screen words of pride and personality and wit
we fall flat in real life; we are still humans, humans.
What does it mean to be human?
It means that sometimes we think of each other as so beautiful that we have no words to tell them, to say that we love how the colors of their clothes make them look so alive,
That we watch for their eyes just to see how they change,
That our hearts jump when they show up walking somewhere,
That men and women both feel a shyness that is human, I believe it.
We all have skin and we all want to be touched by each other, just once.
A man eyes a woman somewhere on public transportation.
As the vehicle shifts them both in their seats he admires the way the sun casts a shadow down her neck, it’s outlined perfectly by her smooth jaw.
He sees her legs, he sees the earbuds snake d