I ate an unripened avocado
with butter out of spite,
listening to the soundtrack
of The Notebook, too. 

Why do I do this to myself?
What came first, 
the misery or the music?
I'll be seeing she in dreams. 

The table holds my elbows,
but it is uninspired in time
with the better part of it 
and me behind better legs.

Landscapers make noise outside,
easily distracting me from my work
of putting commas in the right place,
and I wish I were them.

What do they worry about?
Probably the same stuff –
love and life and death,
but they don't let it ruin their mowing. 

Changing the tune,
I put on old emo/punk songs,
which don't belong 
to anyone but me. 

I eat chunks of cheese,
and realize I mostly 
Tweet about food, oh well;
I shrug, close the windows, continue living.