When I was 7 or was it 9,
old enough to know what it mean to die,
I killed a caterpillar
to see what it was like.
I thought of this today as I placed a rose into
an arrangement at work,
then I pricked myself on a thorn
and thought of crossing the river and watching
a man hand his helmet to a friend as he crossed from Pennsylvania to Ohio.

Drifting off to sleep,
I wrote a poem in my head and thought of fucking you again,
in a dreamy way, not remembering all the said feelings all the sad words,
then I remembered my Grandfathers funeral and touching his ribs to make sure it was still him.
Drifted off to sleep with the touch of his suit vaguely on my fingertips.

Train of though so random and chaotic, how can it be called a Train.
Ravens, carpet, caramels. To-do lists, childhood hurts and healed woods. Forgotten friends and forgotten birthdays, regrets, alarm clocks, needs, wants, cuddles, fears.
Sentances, menagaries, loves and loss.

Can anyone pin down just what the fuck I am talking about when I am talking about
how I loved you today, but forget what its like sometimes?

10/06/2009

Posted on 10/06/2009
Copyright © 2026 Vikki Owens