you are always perfect
stretched out
sucking smoke in
tracing rings on my
clothed shoulder
and I am forever staring
and wanting and almost begging
to swallow bits
of your lower lip

at 1:19 i woke up wanting
to get dressed and walk to school
wait for you to come to your 7:30 class
to ask what color of shirt you wore yesterday
tell you i wore black and that my feet were hurting
as i walked from classroom to classroom
and that they’ve buried the fish without me

she said, “sometimes you call me by the wrong name”
he said, “you don’t know who the beatles are”
so, “it takes ages for you to reply”
and then, “well, you couldn’t tell me something sweet even if you tried”

(now, a pause)

she said, “one night I was 9, my brother came into my room and touched me. I woke up when his hand started — never mind. it felt like dying, and no one would hear because he was careful not to make the bed — anyway, he did that every night until I was 12. every night except tuesdays. it was safe. all of us would sleep in our parents’ room and he couldn’t—”
he said, “stop. let’s go to sleep”

(so, a tear)

and then, “the thing is, you feel like a tuesday”
now, they both know why it would be terrible if he were to leave her.

this heart, like a child, threw a tantrum.
it demanded to know where you are
why you went
how long it takes to get there
and when I said “it’s too far
I can’t take you”
it begged to know when you will come back.

sometimes people walk home with hands
inside pockets or pulling on straps
of backpacks– unaware they’re
dripping blood so pungent
that stray dogs
kept away

Turn the lights off. Go to bed. In the morning
notice how the clouds have moved.
Even the lawn is overgrown.
A bird hops outside your
window. You don’t
have to
stay.