17 feb: offbeat

I couldn't stop thinking about
grey tartan and gin
and soft pink skin.
Cigarettes and typewriters,
drops of ink on the paper
leading away from the word
"desperation."

But there it was.
"I'm leaving for the afternoon.
Your choice is to prune
the bushes or to water them."
What was I to do?
I liked them full and so did you.

You were frantic.
As though you'd misplaced something
when really you were just searching
for a fishing net.
"Look at the sunset."
Oh but it's gone, it's over, I'm sorry.

[Friend, friend
do not cower or back down
from this but know
that I am listening for you,
to you, always.]

Left to rot,
built to spill,
one of us was always ill.
I was waiting for you to come home--
I have not touched the bushes yet.

I should really stop
Writing poetry at 1:43
and fantasizing about pouring alcohol in my coffee
And fantasizing about making love to you
and fantasizing.

I should really stop
Spending too long online
and going to sleep 2 hours before my family wakes
and going to sleep (just to wake up a few hours later)
and not sleeping

I should really stop
reading Cummings late
and pouring over Byron late
and pouring over Burns late
and late night poetry readings

I should really stop
listening to death cab sleepy
and listening to brand new sleepy
and listening to la dispute sleepy
And listening to perfect lyrics sleepy

I should really stop
dreaming about love
and dreaming about those who don't love me
And dreaming about those who might love me
And dreaming about you loving me

I should really stop
but I cant seem to stop
any of it