he's the type of guy
who wears the same pair of jeans
for months at a time
wearing them down to frayed seams and cuffs
The type of guy
who shops at the Good Will
comfort over style
familiar with familiarity

She's the type of girl
who doesn't know where her clothes came from
She picked them all up at one time or another
The type of girl
who doesn't spend multiple morning hours
in front of a mirror
It's about what she puts into the world
her body's expendable

They are the type of couple
who preemptively **** away their arguments
because real conflict would surely break them
so they refuse to look at it
until it becomes so large and obtrusive
that it comes crashing down on them
like a breaker
and washes them away

You spoke to me with your
voice like Mia Farrow’s and
your eyes not at all like
trampolines. A tar twig
bobbed between your lips;
you spoke of self-destruction
and smoked your commas
and semi-colons. You asked me
questions with the least amount
of answers and the most amount
of space, like a widow’s home
adorned in compromise. The six
o’clock sun sprawled through.
You said I reminded you of how
we’re always treating people like
fractions, simplifying where we
should be unfurling equations.
I saw the dawn illuminate your
hiccups and your hesitations. I
took a kiss; I thought there’s
nothing more fleeting than
moments like this, but at least
you can’t run quickly with a
heart so full.

I was real quiet when
I closed
              that door.
You smile like bro-ken glass
and walk like the newspapers left on subway benches-
we've watched them        float
like dandelion seeds
while the train brought in its
catch of businessmen.
Do you remember?

I was real quiet, understand,
when I wept and you were sleeping
there beside me.

Do you know you talk in your sleep?
It's wonderful and terrifying-
you are screaming and crying
and reaching like a newborn,
and I want to save you.
I want to lift you
up and out
with my kisses
and my arms.

But I touch,
and you're wide awake.

You stare, and I stare,
and I want to tell you I love you,
and that I'll kiss you up and out,
but you've already closed
                                             that door.

This morning I watched you
stumble into the bus
like a drunken moth:
straw-headed, foggy,
jacket clinging to you
by one shoulder
like an ironic flag.
America has claimed you!
Just like Our Moon,
those ironic flags of liberty.

Chortling, choking
on nothing but your
immovable child-like
sadness. Leathery
wings sprawled, gaping,
stinking of whiskey and ****.
You were screaming
at a woman across the aisle
whose eyes also gaped,
who didn't see the revolution,
who feared her reflection in the
eyes of "Made In The USA".

Who is she? What form
have you given her?
The mother who soaped
your tongue with her bitter morals?
The sister who boiled her
life away on a spoon?
The lover who embraced your wounds
despite EVERYTHING
and then became one?

You were eating an apple
from your pocket,
"Red Delicious,
the MOST American fruit!"
It was mostly rotten, sweaty
brown core staring into me
like a terrible moth's eye.

I watched you until
my stop,
I'm sorry I don't know why.
When the bus-man shoo'ed you off
I heard you scream after me,
really howling.

I'm sorry I can't save you,
I'm a moth too.

I ran home this morning
and left all the lights on.