The Yankees lost.
Microwaving music.
I am tired and low.
Wearing a hoody.
The chaos is calm.
I don't know when.
Or how to stop caring.
Hearing the hospital.
Won't hear my own death.
Unless bullets.
Or her drowning.
Poems are all we have.
Earrings if I can find them.
Could call California crime.
I'd rather New York now.
There's a last time for everything.
It's okay to feel.