I conjure you in my dreams.
Grecian Goddess that you are
arms and legs lined with colors
that bleed out of your tattoos
like the prettiest pieces of heaven.

I made you something for Christmas.
Nothing that could ever satiate your
expensive taste. More brass than gold.
A little worn, a little old just
like my apologies and all of those
"I miss you"s.

"Maybe if you're lucky"
she says like the dealer
at a blackjack table.
The representative of the House.
Of the Competition. She fingers
the deck of cards that hold my
fortune with whimsical interest.
Whereas I can't take my eyes
off the flop.

They were just talking about you
right before you turned the corner.
Whispered words, hushed hurried huffy
little things. Like pinpricks on the back
of your neck.

Or worse. Maybe they weren't talking
about you. Nobody is talking about you.
Nobody FEELS the way you FEEL things.
All capital letters and **** and vinegar.
You are alone in your intellect and alone
in your
FEELINGS.

I'm just an unlabeled mix CD.
Slightly scratched at the edges,
worn with the labors of love
and the empty rooms with the
twangs and bass of my soul
resonating off the wood panel walls
like they were midnight cathedral halls.

Your car confirms your existence.
When I see it stopped at the gas station
I wonder if there are new hands pumping
your gas, opening your door.
Making that laugh ring out in the night.
Tracing hidden messages on your back
with fingertips and lips.

Nothing I could
ever write would
capture the way
you make me feel
when you're not even trying.