what can change, will

I sit here on nights similar to this
catching angles of moonlight
into my black ruled notebook.
most nights, the moon is weak
and does little to help my weak
eyes.

These fingers stay firm around
the shaft of my pen and I grope
around for things to give you,

some token from my life here;
the little left of me—after the
year grinds me simpler; duller.

You asked me what I had done
with myself. “Been 2 years,”
You said it with irresistible sparks.

My answers never satisfy.
the iterations are all here—my mind:
The wild, untamed bliss of ignorance.

Now, during peak hours for drunks,
hookers, their pimps, and their pushers,
I can give myself to you, purely;

the down-on-their-lucks ease
the avoidance of what could-have-been.
because where-it’s-at, really isn’t.

I could be something more for you,
but what good is life-normalized?
We shouldn’t fear thunder or pain.

My face is not red, my nose not bulbous,
but I have my share of charred blackness.
And oh, what I would unmake for you.

For now, scratch another line
in the sharply angled moonlight—
I hope you notice the care
finally put into it all.