Succulents by Jason Joyce

 

I saw the future with her clothes off

A Happy Meal-ness, sinking ship tingling
climbing the rope in gym class

In order we go: her, me, the door

She sleeps in my tank top, XL

Sheets of past ghosts tumble the laundry sea,
when right words didn’t come out,
no longer haunting the house, my mouth

A hickory sadness she cannot teach,
walking downtown in winter, layers I must keep. I am
a desperate child unwrapping an entire
Christmas of underwear and socks, things I need.

Her touch says we wander
eternal, bags in hand, under eyes, rings
and reclaimed wood, the same bed

I cannot wait to not go home without her

A future of creatures, XS

Strands of desert vines entwined, repotting the
succulents, thirsty all these years,
soothsayers praying:

Let there be ocean where we finally unravel

 

JASON JOYCE is a writer, designer, and arranger in Los Angeles who has made it a life-long mission to never grow boring. Originally from Wyoming, Jason puts his MBA to work as the co-founder of the clothing company Weekend Society, plays keys in The Rubbish Zoo, and loves ghost stories around the campfire. Choose your own adventure to find out more about his pursuits and published works: @jasonrjoyce on Instagram or jasonrjoyce.com.