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[27 Feb 2006|09:01pm] |
when you're not here
i do not stub my cigarettes
all the way
out. i bite off the dead
skin around the corners
of my fingernails & the back of
my lower lip
while i write, sitting
on blankets made by Mexicans
in Kansas City which
is home to me as you are
in a certain
sentimental way that binds
us through whatever
time & struggle or
rapture & mischeif may
distract us from each
other momentarily.
when you're not here
it is very quiet except for
the radio & i contemplate drinking
all of your coffee before i
leave except i wont. instead i
will find some subtle scrap
of paper on which to
copy down this thing &
leave it in a spot you
may not discover for days.
&, though imperfect, these
are the ways.
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