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