Bones and Sunsets (Sometimes I Hate You)

Bones and Sunsets

(Sometimes I Hate You)

Collin R. Vogt

---

Driving home,

I think of you.

My head rests

against my

palm

and I steer

with one hand,

(because sometimes

I kind of want

to die)

And the

thought

of you

drifts into my mind

like air into

my lungs.

I thought of you

because of

the sunset.

There was nothing

in particular

about it that

reminded me of you.

I felt like

I was

invading

your space

in my

memories.

Like they weren’t

just mine.

It made me

want to

talk

to you,

to probe

your mind

as once

I had.

I wanted to

hear the

way you thought.

Is that

strange?

I remember

listening to

you think.

Do you ever

touch

your arms and

legs

and all your

fingers and

toes

and

feel disappointed?

Let down

by the

hardness -

the stiffness -

of

the bone?

How certain

you must be,

the space you

inarguably

take up;

That in a

certain sense

you must be

something

and

absolutely

Not

another,

Not any

other

but one.

Are you

afraid

of

that?

I am

and I wanted you

to know.

I don’t care

who

you

tell.

The orange

sunset

bores through the sky

and it feels

or seems

like a

passage to somewhere,

one that I can see

but never

reach.

And

do you notice how

the yellow light

and the blue sky

never mix?

There’s no green

In the sky

where there

should be.

The light just

sits

on top of it

and

comes through it

like it’s not

even

there.

What do you

think of

that?