the dirty dishes in my thoughts.

wearing the same shoes each day of the week.

when I don’t chew my words.

banging two rocks together.
thinking more would be better.

memory.   what?

drinking only half a cup.

allowing bare paper to congregate on my desk.

doors I only imagine open.
gloves I lost.

brittle morning air, no pen in hand.

lies.   any lies.

coloring skies when I don’t look.

thinking distance matters.
fingertips when they’re misplaced.

swallowing my breath.
thinking it don’t matter much.

shoes too small.
two feet, confused.

the third I don’t speak about.

standing at the bottom of a thought,
speechless beneath the waterfall.

I am afraid I am all the things I think
I am.   I think.