Eve Rounds

suchthing

there’s no such thing as a perfectplace.
no hardwood floor without that one exposed nail head
no bookshelf full of novels that evoke only layered laughter
no pantry stocked with just peanut butter pistachios and chili chocolate
yet i wait for that place
socks on hammer in hand
a few unlikely library books on hold
sun dried apricots and fresh ambrosia apples.
i make this place happen
by writing here
this is my fuckingplace.

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

love

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

noise

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

Twins

It isn’t easy being a twin.   Others considered us as one two-part person,  while our parents saw,  in our conspiring, four or more.