Recent Post
@metatronpress

- 7 hours ago

RT @sinfulpluto: this is what happens when you push a cancer’s buttons too much https://t.co/O6YrtOKFzg
h J R
@metatronpress

- 3 days ago

RT @pamelalisabeyer: i’m always erasing my dreams by looking at my phone
h J R
@metatronpress

- 4 days ago

RT @anotherginsberg: Big news everyone! I'm starting an arts magazine! Submissions are currently open for poetry / weird shit, and as we se…
h J R
@metatronpress

- 5 days ago

RT @metatronpress: Healing Spells went digi! All our latest releases are officially available as e-books! Simply just purchase the e-book o…
h J R
@metatronpress

- 5 days ago

RT @yyzachary: fact: being happy made me hotter
h J R
Archives

OMEGA | Zachary Cosby
3820
post-template-default,single,single-post,postid-3820,single-format-standard,ajax_fade,page_not_loaded,,qode-theme-ver-6.3,wpb-js-composer js-comp-ver-5.0.1,vc_responsive

Zachary Cosby

13 Jul Zachary Cosby

CHORDS

 

Walking
home near
Lloyd Center
I thought I
was being
mugged
but he
only
wanted
me to sign
a petition to
save the whales.
.
I’m kidding,
it was
a real
mugging.

I wanted
to live
in that
summer.

Sour black tea.

Meadows of
gone.

He tells me
of his Spanish
vacation.

When she
arrives,
she arrives
with no
beer.

I fold your
handwritten
note into
a pale paper
swan and
walk along
the bridge
towards a
new year.

He asks for
another
cigarette
and the
future
is already
here.

I know you
are not
possible.

I write a
letter
the next
morning
but stop
myself
from
mentioning
the bedroom
floor,
all those
tiny black
ants,
carpet fiber.

I brush
my hair in
different
directions.

Feeling
underwhelmed.

Crossing the
bridge finally you
text back.

I stand against
the wall and
close my
eyes.

Seasick dream
of Manzanita.

I read
this book
in the wrong
kind of order.

I worry
when we
kiss
I will call
you by my
manager’s
name.

I lie
to you
constantly.

I’m sorry
for not
doing the
dishes.

Him
touching
my leg
underneath
a table.

I fall asleep
wet.

I email you
to stop.

It is unlikely
you will
eat
my arm.

In two weeks
you are a
horse head
floating
through the
night.

I read a book
called
Thursday.

My bed
always smells
like cigarettes
not people.

I think
of us
pressed
against
the hood
of your
car.

Making out
like
microphones
listening.

Cold winter
drought.

We met
in front of the
stop sign
with a
long thin silver
scratch.

Biting in the
backseat
of your car.

This must
be the future,
it feels so
different
than how
I remember
the past.

I wonder what
you would
think of me
if you were
still alive.

I don’t
want
to eat
other
people.

Waiting
for new
life
events.

This is
something
called Chords.

It doesn’t
matter if you
saw that
photograph.

He introduces
me as his
poet-friend.

I get out
of bed and
the front door
hangs there.

It scares me
when you
text back
too quickly.

If we show
our body
to the sun
we die.

I wake up
again.

Feeling
bored
watching
you drink.

Noticing patterns.

I close my eyes
and think of
Thursday.

I share
pictures of
pink and blue
clouds.

Only clouds.

He whispers
something about
photographs
I was not
supposed
to hear.

I pour coffee
into three
white cups.

There were
two me’s
that walked
you home
that night
the me who
was so happy
for your
birthday party
and the me
who would
leave
you the next
morning

Everyone
has their
own tiny
machines and
they don’t know
what to do.

Does it
matter
what
I think
of your
life?

Smoke
until
the block
ends.

She pushes
her face into
his chest
across the street
from alleyway bar
where we met
three years ago.

I mail three
letters like
three paper
prayers.

I want to think
of us
as vibrating
strings on his
out of tune guitar
but what
us.

I cross out
that word
in yr poem.

I hear
the sun
crawling
and turn
over
in bed.

I spent
last year
swallowing
swords but
no one
showed up.

I don’t want
old friends in
my new life
and they
know it.

I plan a trip
to the beach
without her.

I step
off the bus
and into
a boyhood
fantasy.

I shop
for pants.

I touch
the fabric.

She’s moving
to Sweden.

You are close
friends
and text
from time
to time.

We touch legs
and leave.

I erase
your name
from the book
and replace it with
he.

I have
unfounded
fears of
broken ribs.

I mime a card
swiping
in a machine.

My hair is
in the mirror.

I get lonely
and open
hizac.jpeg.

He kissed
like a
house
trapped
in a flood.

I want to
be a dancer.

I want to open
a bakery.

He takes
all our time
to grieve.

I see you
on the street
and intentionally
make myself
small.

I can’t stop
touching my eyes.

You hand me
a word
written on
paper.

You reach the end.

You turn the page.

I don’t know
what to do
with all the
perfect people
you bring
over.

I don’t
see what
she has
to do
with us.

Am I
the only
person
who ever
thinks
about this.

We make out
like horse
heads floating
through the
night. .

I drink tea
in the kitchen
with the lights
off.

I am constantly
moving and
he makes me
uncomfortable.

I fill
my stomach
with ash.

I wait in front
of my house
for hours
and the door
is locked.

He looks up
from his
book.

My touch a dead
animal.

Your promises
feel so fleeting
and nothing.

I spend my day
in rooms.

He likes
the new
album.

I imagine
a time when
we can
have real
conversations.

Like family.

I lock
the door
behind me
with shaking
hands.

You keep up
with television
and autumn
is almost here.

I feel loss in
the direction of
my childhood
crush.

The email
will not
receive
a response.

I put on
a shirt.

I lay
awake.

 


 

Zachary Cosby is a United States based poet. He edits Fog Machine.

More Recent Posts