it can’t be understood, but still — it must be said:
no sooner have you left the room,
that i begin to ache for you
ready to chuck it all to the fire:
the beauty of memory propelled into flame
launched by an old reliable:
my sweet senseless indignation
i bolt the front door to spite the fear you’ll not walk through it
i crunch crush my joys to appease my hot rage
i am writing these words in black pen on a bar stool,
and all evening, it’s rained
last night you said “love without turmoil is apathy”
and the worst part is that i believed you
and how embarrassing it is,
to be seen wanting anything
how shameful to long
how pitiful to admit
that you crave any love at all
what a stupid use of my morning: to be anything but self possessed,
to be in search of a shadow, still, without news,
throwing knives into the horizon,
and demanding the return of the moon
i chide myself for loving past love’s natural end
playing god and choking back the taste of marble
rolling over and over again like a pedigreed dog:
showing belly, doing tricks
and you — still absent
and yet somehow, still showing teeth
“a cigar?”
“no, a cigarette.”
“a cigarette it is.”
i am glad you have found something
to fill the space in your mouth
when before there was only blood,
blood, blood.
Holy shit
Your brain is magnificent