I play six clicks to you,
like I used to look for
Jesus on Wikipedia,
when I find my
weary fingers wandering
into my healing wounds again,
digging the cursor across
bruises and sutures to
links so you won't
show up in my search bar.

I can play pretend too,
like all the college students
haunting the streets,
moving straight faced
and dead eyed past
the homeless people
holding their heads and
fighting their hunger.

Your newly pierced nose
sniffs out my high blood pressure,
sweaty nervousness, and
***** haired demeanor;
the shivering mourning dove
perched atop rubble
sings out shaky poems to
your roommate.

You've walked into a new room
and I'm standing in the hallway,
trying to figure out which closed door
I'll find you behind,
pulling each one open in turn
only to hear another swing shut in
some ******-Doo style pursuit.

I keep your memory in my pocket,
a tattered pin-up photograph, to
pull out and glance at occasionally
with glazed over eyes and
a drool dripping mouth.

How does the other side of your bed feel,
so full and pumping blood?

We both jumped in after eating,
but you keep swimming and
I find myself on the
shoreline once more,
grabbing for a towel,
trying to push the water
from my own lungs.

A pair of tan underwear
lives in my dresser,
splattered with stains
from the **** you
keep in your backpack.

I still wear them,
and I can't help
but think of you.