Tuesday morning.
I woke up, to find my bedside empty.
There was a letter on the mirror,
I'd met someone else, "I'm sorry".
I decided to take a shower, but halfway through,
I remembered I forgot to pay the water bill.
I dry myself and decide to cook breakfast;
I also forgot to pay the gas bill,
tough luck.
I take off for work,
but forgot to gas the tank
yesterday night,
the car stops running by the interstate,
flashing red and blue lights stop by my car,
"License please" says the man with the funny shades,
seems though I also forgot my wallet in the living room table.
I begin walking to work with only a $250 ticket,
tough luck.
Great, I arrived to work ten minutes late, coincidentally
my boss was holding a meeting over low funds and
dismissal of some employees,
lucky me.
I'm the first one out, I gather my stuff from my desk,
and begin making my way out, secretary passing by spills coffee
on my "precious" belongings,
"Just trash them" I said,
tough luck.
Walking down an alley towards my apartment,
three creepy looking
dudes ask me for my wallet,
-as if I had it-,
"We'll just take the watch, and the coffee stained coat, great, we'll also kick your *** while we're at it."
Great, just great, fifteen minutes later I get up and walk home,
"Crap!" my keys were in my coat,
tough luck.
I tried going in through the window, funny, someone else did before me;
my house is missing anything considered valuable,
I walk into what's left of my living room, and find my wallet,
empty:
What a coincidence.
I just need some sleep, so to my room it is, great
it's also been sacked;
thankfully my back up phone was still under my nightstand.
15 missed calls from...my brother, voicemail says my father died while I was at work,
tough luck.
Nothing else can surely go wrong, right?
I reach for the gun under the bed,
they also stole that, just great!
Tough luck!...

I'd like to think that's a perfect title
-after much, much, much thinking-.
I'd like to believe this will be the perfect poem,
so I wait here for the right words to appear,
hoping that eventually the right words
will lead me to the perfect poem.
Hoping to express what I must in a way to
captivate your eyes.
Hoping, but how do you hope when there's no hope?
How do you speak without any words?
How do you listen?
When hearing is the problem.
There's no such thing as a perfect poem--
much less a perfect title.
In my mind there's a whole world of letters;
an entire galaxy filled with verses and phrases,
yet like a puzzle that cannot be solved,
so is this poem.
And how do I say I love you in a different way?
When I know its been said enough times.
How do I say I miss you without being too cliche?
All the love songs have been sung,
all the nostalgic poems have been written.
I'm too late for romance,
too early for nostalgia.
There's no difference between this words and the next ones,
there's not enough words,
not enough languages,
not enough civilizations
to form the perfect phrase,
the perfect verse,
the perfect title...
I love you, Je t'aime, Te amo,
I miss you, Te extraño.
Darling, come home.

I precariously prepare the play poetry,
patiently pondering the plane paper.
Part by part I paint the possibilities;
to pertain this performance perfectly
I pick P.
It is poison; I proceed,
problematic,
-even-,
precise predicates
I place, it's a paradox. Perdition.
To picture my pain the persona must
posture my part: I progress without
precipitating my predicament,
pursuing the proximity of an end,
puzzling, pushing, and punching without progress.
Oh please let my precedent come to pass,
prefacing the end.
The plague is over.