In the hopes

I have always wanted everything to matter. The fact that tonight I ate apple slices dipped in yogurt, and what I was listening to while I did. A little brown under their skin. Vanilla. (Or have I always?) This is why I struggle to write poems that are more than inventories. I have always wanted everything to matter, because it was exquisite, all of it. I have always wanted everything to be exquisite. Because it all mattered. Or it could, or it should, so I documented it. So I documented all this in the hopes that it would start to matter, or if nothing else, I would learn what it meant. Even if just to me.