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pi didnt let me post the first one

i can’t listen to music without thinking about her. every piece of shitty poetry that condemns my for you page makes me think of her in our living room. she is holding bills as she sits on our couch, a calculator on the table and a glass in the other hand. i will ask her what she wants for dinner, and she will tell me. there’s something so guttural about knowing you want to love someone for the rest of your life. that little moments like a dinner order are exactly what will give you the drive to wake up and slave away to a 9 to 5. ive been thinking about what i wanna be a lot lately. i think it’s honestly teaching. philosophy. i like to imagine myself as a philosophy professor discussing love with my students, i would tell them about my little artist at home and our baby girl and how i too thought marriage was simply the removal of autonomy until it befell my door. i think that’s a normal way to feel, with tubes of “the good ol ball and chain” and “can’t live with her can’t live without her“ down our throats like prospective foie gras. but my love is gentle. it is patient. it is kind.

@22

Mar 16, 2025

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~on waiting~

--from my latest substack post-- ordering coffee, again. i’ll grab this one. of course; it’s no problem. oat? soy? neither? okay, no milk, right. it’s a thursday, you don’t put milk in your coffee on thursdays, i remember. you told me that last autumn for the first time. at the shop on the corner of streets running north and south and east and west the location as ambiguous as you were to me. i held onto your words like candlelight, which is to mean, i felt myself grasping at the wick of your thoughts as they released. hold onto it slowly, i did, each tendril of smoke had meaning, for you have never said things that did not matter. i’ve always held the space to gather up all your meaning, to keep attempting to collect the strands of everything that encapsulates you. the long strings of yarn strung together in loose cadence; but i can keep the rhythm, and i can keep the pace, and i can hold the room for all of it, i’ll hold the threads in my palm and i’ll grasp it with certainty. because it is without effort, there is no weight, or burden, or distraught, to be the one to hold that which you carry; it is not beyond my strength to hold all of you. for to love was to bear it all, or at least that’s what i read, but isn’t that how it feels? to be seen, to be understood, is to recognize that any quirk fear inability lack thereof is not a withholding nor weakness nor failing it is the space between us the location in the strings where we meet in the middle the threaded spiderweb of life has bound us this way no, not doomed; no, not ill-fated. for you are the red string connected to my wrist the one that has lead me to you the universal pull to unravel the thread so that i may reach you even though you exist outside of my grasp as i see it now all i ever needed was your hand pressed against mine i want to feel myself expanding and compressing underneath the weight of your eyes soft winding and slow crackling do we fall deeper the string twisting and tying and threading and then loosening unraveling the yarn crocheted and knitted do we find ourself loose ends and damaged strands have we come together to make whole the both of us i’ll order the same coffee every thursday i’ll walk you home from the station i’ll make the pasta that way you like it and i’ll keep writing these letters so that one day you’ll read them i’ll press them with the flowers of your tomorrow scented with the bloom of longing sealed with the certainty of promise the promise that i’ll keep collecting and saving the things you’d like the letters the movies the albums the trinkets the odds the ends the things yet to be discovered and the things you’ll have to show me i’m just a scrapbook of all the things i’ve loved before a capsule of intricacy i’ll keep the light on outside i’ll wait on the porch i’ll keep the fire warm i’ll know when you’re here and you’ll know it’s me for the strings will connect, the yarn unraveled, the lines no longer crossing but joining. and if it’s a thursday, a plain coffee, no milk just so there isn’t any lack of a sign. #poetry #letters #substack

@bills

Dec 5, 2024

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Eat chicken dumpling alphabet soup

After Metastasis by Ja’net Danielo She can’t remember and maybe that is why I keep rearranging my living room, thinking about where the floor lamp should go. She can’t remember and this is what I tell myself when I am frightened into thinking that I am forgetting what a floor lamp is. Yesterday night I overheard a woman telling a boy to adopt a bunny and pretend to be one so that the bunny thinks he is also a bunny and befriends him and makes him one of their own like the wild ones do with each other in the bushes of thirteenth street. I want to know, when do bunnies stop being rabbits? Across the street from the home my grandmother was put in, the night owl of eateries, the pine cone open until forever and ever where I eat chicken dumpling alphabet soup every weekend because my grandma doesn’t know how to make it anymore. She can’t remember and the cold noodles in the warm broth repel each other like oil and water and while I wait for my soup to settle I draw a picture of what the noodle-alphabet spells out today and think about what it’s going to spell out inside my stomach later and I wonder if this is what my grandma meant when said that you must not add your noodles in too late before our 67th introduction where she asks me my name again and we sit in each others company talking about the weather over and over again. Pine Cone is a truck stop and Rabbits are the same thing as bunnies and my alphabet soup says that my floor lamp should probably go in the corner.

@glitterpoprocks

Sep 17, 2024

Top Recs from @naluwai

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gringo lindo da banda calipso

camadas!

@naluwai

Dec 5, 2024