On Father’s Day, I left work early
to ride a bullet train to the south.
I rode past towns I’d never been
and still haven’t. I read stories
by Dylan Thomas and I napped.
In San Jose, I got out and walked around
as does a tourist in a foreign country.
Then I beat a prompt retreat, as does an
accidental stranger at a family reunion.
San Francisco is large and lonely —
a cold hulking mess of isolation.
The only meaning in life is to live
shortly, then to move far away.
Salinger returned with a palsy
and a wont for sitting alone
with Green Apple’s free books.
Spied nightly tucked into a donut
shop corner, Salinger reads — mouth
agape against his will, hunched
over the night’s printed finds,
hair whiter than his portrait,
pallid, unappealing, yet tall,
I live for typos in published books lmao
one day you’ll forget about me. in fact you probably already have. you just haven’t realized it yet. you forgot about my breath in the morning or my glasses of wine at night. you forgot about union square and all the movies we watched. you forgot about what train we had to take or where we were even going. i will always remember how tolerable your breath was or how much of a lightweight you were. or that exact spot by the fence and how we only ever really sat through half the movies. i know one day soon I won’t even be as present as a scar to you. you’ll make your bed with sheets I’ve never laid on and you’ll drink your tea from a mug i’ve never made you coffee in. you’ll watch me fade like the ending of a movie or the last inches of daylight after a shitty sunset. like a birthday that went by too fast. no candles on the cake, no tears in your eyes. i will be nothing but the coffee rings on the table or the cigarette butts in the cracks on the sidewalk. i wish i was permanent. like times square in the daytime. or your split ends. but i’m only temporary to you. i’m only words and thoughts.