Dear Rose, or a Poem About Happiness and a Little Bit Relief.

Dear Rose,

Depression didn’t win today
and yes, I know
you’d call that phrasing cliché,
but you left your house
and enjoyed it.

You assembled a shelf for shoes
and Nick’s shoes
and any shoes, really.
You cleaned your apartment
upgraded your phone
signed on a new client
and made calls with confidence.

You’re close to tears
well, close to welling up-
we both know you don’t cry much,
but these waterworks are joyous
because this is rare for you, I know
and your brain is saying
“This too shall pass, remember that”
and you’re telling your brain to fuck off
because that’s depression talk
and you’re going to ignore it
for today, triumphant
shining like a sunbeam from your
toothpaste-spackle-free mirrors
and freshly disinfected countertops.

Remember that this is possible.


A friend of mine gave me the prompt “Write about a person you lost as if they’re an object waiting to be found.” One of my best friends was murdered last spring, so here goes:

I hadn’t thought about you
for longer than I care to admit
it just wasn’t the right season
but you were always there
waiting for me to pick you up again
when I had the time
when you weren’t in use
and I don’t know
if I regret or cherish the comfort
of knowing you were right
where I left you
but others, they needed you too.
I’ve always been one to share
and most of them treated you well
but some of them didn’t
take care of you they didn’t
put you back safely
where you belong
broke you like you weren’t
one of a kind
and now I can’t find you
but I see you everywhere
your outline pressed on
cold carpet fibers
a shrine for a deity lost to time
but not to I,
disciple of sorrow and longing.