regrettably,

the first word must be the finest;

a promise of what is to come.

regrettably,

you've arrived, unaware that there is no message,

your eyes skimming

--if this far at all--

for the shine of stars on the horizon,

a morsel of life to feed your mind.

regrettably,

you will find nothing here.

just an empty written page.

scribbled heedlessly and meaninglessly

and in the middle of a night not quite

dark enough for my taste--or yours, perhaps.

regrettably,

i am tired.

and the sky is still too light.

and my dry eyes blink in time to the ticking of the

globe, spinning on its axis.

slowly.

regrettably,

you're here too,

wasting your time

on someone else's regrets.

when we would dance like lunatics in the kitchen

or talk for hours about your awful boyfriend

our secrets only our own

when we would contemplate groceries together

or attempt to cook a new recipe for our fake food blog

it was a unique kind of freedom

when we would giggle and drink cheap wine

or turn all the lights off and watch bad tv

we were untouchable

sometimes I want to just thank you

for being the best friend I never thought I'd get to have

cause despite the time that it took to

get us here, we made it.

even if we can never go back

let's not forget it

I know you'll never get this letter. But I wanted to say thank you. And I miss you.

I'm being melodramatic, I know. It's only been a couple of days. But it's not like that for me. It's been years.

Only now, when you're away, do I have the strength to say this: I've been waiting for you. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. From that day we met two years ago, I wanted to know you. I wanted to spend every simple second with you.

It never mattered what we were doing, only if you were there.

Maybe it seemed like nothing to you. I almost hope it did. I always hope it didn't.

Don't you understand that I've never felt this way? Don't you understand this sinking feeling, this beautiful, wrong, perpetual, ugly feeling?

No, I guess you wouldn't understand. Nevermind, you shouldn't. I don't expect you to love me back.

So. How have you been, without me? Is it even any different?

The crumpled note flew through the air and hit the rim of the trash can.

It bounced, then fell onto the ground.

No one moved to pick it up.

My self-image

is like looking

in a scratched mirror.

I get the basic concept

of myself, but it's distorted.

Maybe I'm not actually fat,

or ugly, or stupid,

but that's all

I can really see.

It's too scratched for

me to make out

anything important.

So I make it up myself.

i can't escape

even and

especially

in my dreams

i see you

because any

time away

i miss you

but even my

dream self

wont ask

the question

on my tongue

or dare

admit the

dangerous

bottled

truth

real or fake

i let

you go

every

time

without

fail

do my

thoughts

stray so far

from

reality

that my

dreams

cant even

imagine

us

?

My wife works in admissions, and almost exactly a month ago, she came home from working a grad fair with a flyer for a low-res creative writing MFA program. I laughed, for several reasons.

The idea is incredibly impractical because money time children life. I also don’t need it; I’ve got my job, and I’m fortunate enough that it’s not going anywhere. Adjuncting someday could be fun, but financially speaking, I’d be better off doing quite literally anything else. An MFA is a lazy “maybe someday” daydream for me very similar to a monthlong European vacation. Hypothetically, if I bent my will and wallet toward it I could eventually make it happen, but am I? really?

Mostly though, I laughed because as I told my wife, “It’s been two years since I’ve written literally anything.”

Those anythings were one-act plays that I sent around to a few competitions in the hopes of seeing one staged. (One finalist status and a lot of radio silence.) Three years before that was the personal essay I actually worked on for real and sent around to a few literary magazines whose niche it seemed to fit. (It didn’t.) And before that was sixteen chapters of a novel I abandoned. Total readership: around 7 for the essay (people who I named in it and wanted an OK from, but who did say they liked it), X anonymous judges for the plays, and 1 for the novel (wife, though I don’t think I ever showed her anything past chapter 10).

That all did feel a little discouraging, but mostly, I hadn’t written anything in two years because I couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. So I laughed, but even while I scoffed at myself, I realized I missed having something to say.

The well still felt very dry, so I turned to the ol’ algorithmic witching rod to hunt for a contest that could give me a topic. Google brought back a bunch of uninteresting stuff, including a contest about the end of the world, and I dropped the matter until I decided that I was going to do this, I was going to write something. So I created a Prose account and wrote about toast.

And then somebody Liked it. And somebody else. And eventually 15 people liked “Little Things,” which means that with the work of a couple hours, I had gotten roughly double the readership I had in the preceding decade.

There’s that bromide about “if you reach one person” that people trot out to cheer up artists who fail to find an audience, and usually, I think the cliché just pisses said artist off more. I have to say, though, Jesus did 15 feel nice.

I’ve been trying to give as much back to Prose people as I’m receiving, reading liking and commenting both on random new posts and posts of people who do the same with my stuff. I’ve probably missed some people. And I’m going to have to slow down my Prose pace some, both writing and reading, because I have this bad habit of feeling most creative when I have a stack of dishes or grading that I’m supposed to be dealing with. But I wanted to write a post to express my appreciation.

I will now (and for the only time, I promise) obnoxiously tag the people who have liked something I’ve posted. Thank you. The reads and likes and comments and reposts and follows mean a lot. Keep on doing your respective things.

I want to love and I want to be loved the way I hear other people talk about their significant others but right now I’m not enough of a person to give what I have to someone else. I want what I am to be enough but I know it won’t be enough. I don’t want to be half of a whole...I want to be whole with complimenting pair so we can complement each other. I want someone to hold when I get cold at night. Someone who can handle me talking before I think. Someone to call me out on bullshit but right now I need to find balance in myself before I invite someone else in. I need to work on me but I want someone to talk to. Someone to love and to listen to. Someone I can love and miss and adore. I want to see them and smile because when I see them I see happiness but right now I need to be my own happiness before I let someone be mine.

So...maybe right now I just need a friend...and I work on the whole romantic relationship thing later. Maybe I’ll have a friend I click within a way that gives me a life partner. Someone I get and someone who gets me with us needing to explain. Someone on my side by choice. Someone who has a corner I can be in and doesn’t mind listening to me bitch and moan about writer’s block and how damn tired I am all the time. Maybe a friend is what I need right now before I get carried away in dreams of love. You can love a friend...right?

But...maybe I should wait to make friends till I live in one place...because right now I'm moving around too much. Maybe you can’t be actual good friends with someone you can’t see in person. Maybe I should wait...maybe in my head till is sort this out self-love is enough.

dear people,

dear the broken-hearted,

dear the injured,

dear the abused,

dear the insane,

dear the hated,

dear the dreamers,

dear the unpopular,

dear the different,

dear people,

you are gorgeous,

you are wanted,

you are cared for,

you are needed,

you are lively,

you are strong.

you are loved.

Face pressed against the glass

Breath fogging my view

I'm looking into a world

Where I won't be

Cause I choose not to

And though there's a chill

Down my spine sometimes

For the most part I'm

Content in this lone

Bubble of mine

You opened a door for me

And let me into that world

Of dinners and messages

And opportunities unfurled

But what I found wasn't

Sunlight, like I so often see

Instead I felt like I was

Hiding

What it is to be me

So let me out

Put me on the other side of

The glass

That's where I prefer to exist

The place where I'll last

And no I won't miss you

Is that selfish of me

My heart speaks the truth

And my soul I believe

I don't need you

I don't care if you need me

I want to be here

And I want to be free