1:: fifth of february, twenty seventeen

held my hands in my lap,

talked politics, new jobs, sat still, good girl.

I rode home with my husband.

The air was thick and sticky,

finally broke open as we came to our front door step.

We sat on the front porch and listened to the rain come down,

shared headphones,

I played Brazil and Garden,

two sad songs--

but we weren't sad.

I came inside.

I am reading two books, one about Billie Holiday,

or about heroin--

about Billie Holiday and heroin.

I am reading Les Mis.

Most of my days are like this now.  I make enough money,

I have a lot of friends,

I live in a big huge city in a paradise country,

I married a good man,

nothing is perfect but a lot of things are easy now.

I sat quietly today watching the rain with a guy I loved,

I ate too many slices of pizza for dinner,

I'll go to bed with my teeth flossed and nails painted.

Now that the days are mostly happy, I can never seem to remember them,

and when they turn sad, it's like they never happened at all.

So I thought I'd keep a portrait here,

to remember days and the songs and the books I liked.

Things I did. Small things. 

Who knows.