The Golden Retriever | 7.17.24

Another sunrise.
A different place.
I’m taller than them.
I’m not taller than anyone.

So this is the dream…

One locked door
that leads to conversations about Picasso
and a room full of puppies.

I try to relate.
Small talk and Birkenstocks.

A roommate unimpressed.
A Sunday afternoon interrupted.
She doesn’t care that we went camping.
I don’t remember the part about camping.

I look around as if
I couldn’t just leave the room.
You’re getting ready.
I want to get ready but this place is brand new.
I stand around not knowing what to do with my hands…

Their houseplants are dying.
But this is a two-room apartment.
My houseplants are dying and I’ve got a whole house.

It reminds me of what I should be doing.
Everything is out of order.
I’m losing touch with who I am
to be with someone who doesn’t know me.

All of a sudden I don’t want to touch anything.
It feels like alcohol.
One too many parties.

The golden retriever gets it.
She’s wildly unimpressed.
Didn’t even raise her head when we walked in.

She’s seen enough.

The elevator to the grocery store is full of people I used to know.
Everyone’s a little blurry.
They come into focus one by one.

I try to explain why I’m there
and lay my head against your chest.

You’re taller now.
I just don’t want to talk anymore.
I’m so used to the silence that fills the gaps.

I’m shaking hands to make you laugh.
We have no idea what we’re doing.
We used to know what we were doing when we weren’t doing things together…

When the doors open
Nothing else matters.
Bagels and hummus and holding hands.