Nothing Met My Hunger

Try another writing tool or move to a different location, I tend to face North when writing but this sentence faces South. Pizza from A-1 in Mansfield, nothing met my hunger like those pies we ordered on Saturday nights. Trains coming and going while we walked the tracks, looking for old stakes and glass insulators. Imagine being scared of kids, and yet here we are. Memories bunch up like weeds, crowding out whatever happiness remains in the dusty coffin of my skull. Nobody wants to get lost in saffron robes around here but the situation is more than a little desperate. Old maple trees coming down, younger ones allowed to live a while longer. Tell me again the story about Krishna and Arjuna? Just once I’d like a therapist whose office wasn’t so obviously decorated to appease me. Separation’s got me by the balls and I don’t have a clue what will help, any ideas? We were better before screens, everybody knows this. Remember knowing how to write a love letter? Emily Dickinson reconfigures how I think about haunts, leaving me a little more trapped than before. Timbers creaking, tides shifting. Imagine looking back a last time at Ireland. Turning the spit as the sun sets. You better believe I’m serious. Will nobody help me discern between what’s real and what’s a story?