Gray

I used to say home is wherever you are but I’m not sure where I are, anymore. Where I am, any day. Where I ever was and where I ever will be and if my ever will be ever will become anything. I feel like I never existed. I ever- existed.

You can find my bones in a museum come January.

I call out to tomorrow. To the person I want to be tomorrow. The person I am not today. Can you make her happy, today? Can you restore her feelings, today? I’m impatient. I’m — Drifting. Like sticks I throw in the creek. Sticks that only lead to lakes. The Midwest is all lakes, but I want oceans. I want blue and orange instead of gray. The sky is dry. You feel nothing. You act out, of nothing. N o t h

-ing has no structure. Nothing can play outside constraints. I watch the sticks drift away. I watch them replaced with identical sticks. Brown and boring and unremarkable like the previous sticks. Nobody remembers sticks. They only remember what they grow in to. Oak trees and Redwoods, somewhere in California. Where, maybe, a better version of myself exists. A version I’d like to squeeze and watch as her muddy, Midwestern roots pour out like dirty creek water. She isn’t made for oceans. She wasn’t even made for rivers. She is

nothing.