On Walking

We look at letters less often
because now they're buried in our brains.
Reviewing them is a formality
done privately.
My letter was for you
and your's was almost mine,
I think.
It was almost mine in the way
that the sidewalk is your's
while you walk on it.
You could say,
this is my turf,
and point to some grass.

different postures

i sat up with a jolt when my alarm went off.
the sky was grey but warm and
it seemed more dynamic than regular sunshine.
i thought i liked it better.
it suited me more. i looked for emails. in the shower i had anxiety
about washing my hair too much.
all the air was in there.
all the words in the emails from that person were useless.
he used 'posture' wrong and he positioned it towards me.
i'm not ok with this compromise.
when i read from my phone, i watch my hands shiver
and my nails curl.
i press the tip of my finger into the black device until
there's no more blood in it
and these words fall into my lap.
he was a liar and he admitted it in these messages.
it was his fault, he said, and he was proud of me
for being so strong but he still needed to talk to me.
sometimes, i get a cramp in the arch of my foot
and i'll scream about it.
sometimes, i feel sick and i'll make long groaning noises
to relieve the pressure.
if you come home and seek me out,
i'll scramble.

Folded Chairs

It used to snowed. We were snowed in around a tiny formica table.
We drank beers and bloody marys and I sweat in my seat
under my shirts and on the plastic and I tried to touch you.
I tucked my finger into your palm while you took pictures.
I tried to talk about my new apartment and the plants I'd buy.
I'll put my bed in the corner and get a long, narrow table.
There will be so many green things on the floor it'll become forest.
I'll scatter soil in the bathroom and leave bowls of water out
as reminders. On a chair by the tub will be a stack of magazines
with an ashtray on top and perhaps a vine climbing the sink.
It'll be a fucking forest, I thought
when the wind was white with snow.

Champagne Wall

I have no headboard,
it's just the wall there.
My white wall goes up and back,
it's high and wide
and yesterday,
when we in bed in the afternoon,
there were shadows from the blinds
all over it. I waited with the white wall.
I looked over my shoulder at it.
Poor white wall caught my hand,
catches my movies in bed,
steams up in the night with dreamy breath
and slows down with the fan.
The white wall is clear and pretty
and alone most of the time.

Boy Toy

I am a soft toy
and my limbs splay easily.
I miss the way you held me,
fed me fake food,
casted me off when a friend called.
I trusted you to ruin my fur,
yank at my torso,
whisper hot, wet secrets down my throat,
catch me with you fist,
drag me by the ear.
I relished the times when you were sick,
then we were both sick,
and you were clammy and cold
and you clung to me.
Maybe one day you won't want me like this
but, I am a toy, I say.
I am your toy.

right in my face

i sat in a mug,
i spied your mug
and cupped my hand around it.
there were many days to hang
on some silly ideas exchanged
in the remote way
we interfaced.
maybe i imagined them.
there were big, luscious drinks
to buy and cherries to eat
and you said eagerly that it was time to
switch to alcohol.
it was the first time to see you
seeing me and it pinched a bit
because it went back and forth so fast.
i can't imagine us brewing in water
but we did,
i can't imagine us climbing around
in towels
but we did.
i came home and sat with my eye brows up,
my hands on my chin,
just like this,
and couldn't explain it to my own face.

hold the ham

when i woke up
i noticed again
the spot where you used to
charge your phone,
that you were the last person
to do all the laundry,
how you propped up
all the pictures
and it seems completely unbearable.
inside this apartment cooks
a terrible red stew.
just below the floor boards
it simmers. at first it was fired
with anticipation and now
it's the saddest energies of absence,
the slow desperation of a
rolling boil.
i have to drink it with everything
i do. a cup for walking the
hallway, a bowl as i lay
alone in bed. soup pools at my feet
in the shower. it's no
good that you're out there
drinking too. i bet you find it in
your pockets, in your hands,
in your mouth between bites
and all this rich meatiness
is killing me.