I was sitting outside of advising the other day when this foreign exchange student walked in. He said his name was ____ and he sat down and shook the advisors hand. It’s a small room with two office chairs and a desk that has a monitor placed on top.

“Can we have your ID number?”

“We want to bring up your class schedule.”

He offers the numbers and they put them in. He’s nervous, he’s fidgeting.

_____ just moved here recently. They’re offering him support to get through his degree. I wonder where he moved from. He doesn’t say. I wonder where he grew up. He doesn’t say. I wonder where his mother and father are. I wonder what he ate for dinner when he was a kid. I wonder what he’s afraid of. I wonder what his favorite movie is. I wonder how long he’s been in school and I listen in to see how much longer he has left. He makes a second appointment. He leaves.

I come back next week and he’s there again. There’s no interesting story, it’s just a normal one I guess. He figures out his class schedule. He goes to class. But it makes me think about all of the people around me. They’re all thinking about the same things I am. They’re all doing the same things I am. We wake up and we eat breakfast and we go to class and we struggle with whatever little system we’re currently cycling around in. How many weeks ago did I have that same conversation? Was anyone listening in on me?

He’s wearing sneakers.

“Nice sneakers.” I said.


I’ll probably never see him again.

He sang her name so many times

He’s forgotten her face.

That’s the story of the girl in the love song.

she’s the white board for your story

she’s the blank slate for your lust

she’s the empty bar, put a nickel in

you can hear your song,

singing through his melody

you can hear your song.

He sang her name so many times

He’s forgotten her face.

That’s the story of the girl in the love song.

She sits there quietly and breaks your heart with

the silent determination of

someone who probably knows better than

to be sticking around.

She says she’s doing alright.

But then she picks up and leaves.

He has sang her name so many times

he forgot her face.


not for everyone.

She always gets there early and stands in front of the door talking loudly about the things people like to say about her. She’s so fat or she gets in their way or she’s just too much of a bitch. She says it’s because she’s a woman but then she laughs and says, well, I guess I’m fat too. She holds herself awkwardly as though she might tip over at any minute but then she goes off on a tirade that seems to put her at balance. White guys with dreadlocks. She doesn’t get white guys with dreadlocks. I’m confused because I assumed they too were a protected class, among the fat, among the loud, among the feminists. I guess not.

It is easy to box up memories.

Yeah. I boxed them up.

I told myself I’d throw them away.

Fabric and paper and plastic and

slippery shiny photographs once loved and

kissed and hugged and

well, I let it go anyways.

I tip it into the bin


it falls

and I guess it keeps on falling

a kaleidoscope of

all those things

but I can’t remember what

any of them were


I left a mess about

and it follows me in ghostly footprints

all the places that I go.

I left a mess about and

sometimes I try to wipe it up

with those super unabsorbant

memory tricks of mine.

I left a mess about and, you know,

sometimes I wonder if it bounced before

it broke.

Sometimes I wonder if I threw it

into the wall and

sometimes I wonder if it

rolled down the street a bit

before coming to a halt.

I left a mess about and

I swept it under the rug and

and I moved out

’cause some messes

I guess

you can’t clean up.

I can hear his alarm go off at the same time my alarm goes off, mine a loud chant, his a low hum as it rattles against the bedside table.

He gets up -

I get up -

I pee -

he pees.

I can hear it all echoing out

in symphonies of thin walls

and early morning habits.

I imagine the whole complex

like timed mechanical puppets-

the clock hits 5 -

we rotate upwards -

yawn -

pull the covers back -

make the bed -

places to be.


Tell me something, tell me something

tell me something.

You twisted around

and you leaned in

and you told me





I said I knew.

And I said I loved you back.

The words had been used before

but felt crisp

and new

full of meaning.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Packed up one against the other

like a printing press

pushing out important news.

I need to tell you,

I’ve felt it for a while,

I love you, I love you, I love you.