Eve Rounds

regrets are worse than an auto immune disease

i grow old inside the depths of
wrinkles and seams chisel themselves in and branch out
with every
“back when”
reaching to borrow from this ever fading palette of patience
joints swell in fervent fever
muscles shrivel up in drowsy discontent
with every infinite
“if only”
provoking my very own
“what if”
diminishing my constant state of

my heart navigates the tempo
of my singing blood
of my thriving veins
of my fearless cells
my mind
tenacious as the tail wind

a poem about you for you (and you)

you are your own though your temperament reminds me of him your head is more ripe mango while his was more soft plum my love

i don’t even know

how long it’s been. haven’t been counting days haven’t counted backwards on the calendar. haven’t bothered to reread my own words. haven’t been missing you

the five senses

your blue eyes and crooked lippy smile which i inherited that tiny soft bristle brush for your basically bald head the white corvette a campfire cards


what did falling in love feel like to you actual falling a new winter sweater a blood flutter did you question its science or were you


sometimes the wind the waves muffle and drown my memories sometimes the wind the waves magnify and amplify the sound of your voice and clearing

the theatre

this is  a silent film flickering  catching  starting over emptiness surrounding such a blinding contrast ahead of us shared stories  captured images disconnected nonsensical we