miss

miss diana,
you're here again,
aren't you?
hurting.
it hurts no less
without the anger:
barking with his name in the doghouse,
and dancing to avril lavine until wee hours
with the girls i wouldn't let see me cry.

today her greasy hair shined in the morning light
next to rows of heirloom tomatoes
whose bulges and wrinkles always make me laugh.
i bit into my raw corn i had already eaten,
gnawing at its marrow
to avoid thoughts of her night before
that could have been mine.

i hate that we speak the same language
and you listen so fucking well.
i hate when we see each other
and that i don't know how to listen at all.
i hate wanting to see you
and that you always think the right thing.
i hate that this is hard
and that i'm just as far from invincible
as i've ever been.

i'll love my always loved quick fixes-
miles of hills
smooth dark chocolate
and my mom's coaxing voice
saying it's better.
she always says it's better.
but she doesn't know
when i snuck off to sled with sam
at every snowfall,
or our hours lying around listening to the white album
or canoeing around unknown waters.
she doesn't know about the sunday brunches
at the mcgoldricks,
that were full of blankets and crossword puzzles.
i never told her
about staying up all night with christopher,
running around the farm
under the night sky.
or when we drove hours,
for a short hike on the Appalachian trail.
or rearranging our entire schedules
to make sure we made completely homemade pizza
or running off to boston
with mushrooms and goat cheese, the sunday times,
and a glorious porch.
i didn't mention,
that i miss him.
actively, residually, annoyingly.
it's far from clean cut,
it's a fucking mess,
just like me.

DLS