Tuesday, May 30, 2017

in cities without wars

there on the third floor where we
believed in nothing

said she was engaged while she got undressed
and i remember that her pants
laced up the sides

eight o’clock in the pouring rain, but i
forget if it was spring or fall

i knew my father was still alive, that i was
paying $320 a month for these two
small rooms

i knew that i still loved her
was sick with it

four years now of scraping my wrists
over jagged glass, of putting my fists through
unadorned walls, of waiting for the phone
to ring

four years now of simple regret
shot through with fear
and i remember the silence we invented

held it like a sustained note, like
wind through an empty house,
midnight and then one and then two

four o’clock in the morning and
she said i have to go and
that was it

got dressed, drove her back to her car,
head foggy with lack of sleep,
taste of ashes in my mouth,
of cold metal and rust,
and she looked at me like i was a
stranger, and i was
opened the door, said good-bye
and the rain kept falling

the starving
continued to starve

nothing you’d ever notice with
your eyes closed

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