Guest Post By Shakespeare

How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my weary travel's end,
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider loved not speed, being made from thee:
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide;
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
     For that same groan doth put this in my mind;
     My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.

i
really
really
really
really
really
really
really
thought
he
was
the
one

i
am
so
dumb

The Present

I feel really raw, really present. More so than I can ever remember. But it isn't like they all say. The present drags on. It doesn't give any gifts. I make up crafts for myself to do so that I can notice the time passing and the seasons changing. I buy groceries and try new recipes, only to throw out food because time won't pass fast enough for me to get hungry enough to eat it all. No one comes to me to stay. I am present, alright. Like the axel of a wheel. Things are happening around me, happening to other people, and I stay put, just connected enough to not be able to complain. What happens next? What happens next?

I can smell tears in my nose. I wonder if I am supposed to cry.

Honey Amber Cloud

If unending honey poured over my head,

Smoothed down my hair,

Flowed over the bow of my lips,

And made of me a relic in amber;

It were hardly more soothing

Or blindly caressing

Or impetuously present

(Forbid me to move!)

Than this golden cloudscape,

This peaceful floating

Of you

And I.

Leveling Up

we are leveling up;
the you and me
morphing into a we,
an us that slips into our speech
unexpectedly.
the girlfriend and boyfriend
we've been tossing around
have set down on the ground,
and the future
that looked like tomorrow
is actually quite further off
and farther
along.

what to do what to do

boston is getting a bleaching,
the color leeching
out, puddling
around my shoes.

Despair Is Premature,

he said gingerly.