you are
still my
writer's
block.

listen,
i avoid your shows
and your friends
and your mom (and
god i loved your
mom more than i
loved you, i think)
and i have even
stopped going to
target in case you
might be working.
i'm so tired of
going out of my
way to be normal.

It might be your birthday today,
honestly, I never remembered and
I had to sneak your license out of
your wallet to check, something
I always felt infinitely bad about
and I hope you don't read this
because the conglomerate of
poems I've written about
you seems a little bit
obsessive. I had to
talk myself down out
of calling and the neighbors
continue to be weary of me behind
their little peach windows with the cream
lampshades because I regularly shake my
head at myself and my lips move in quick
stripped, phrases. Do you think, that maybe,
I should stop feeling guilty?

Maybe.

(but will you) love me
in pigeon's pose when
my tummy rolls over
like rice paddies and
the dimples in my
thighs are as moon
craters on that 27th
spoonful of peanut
butter, orbit on my hips
squeeze the fat beneath
my arms to relieve all
your stress, when I'm
singing zee avi in the
shower and you realize
I once told you a choir
teacher said I was a high
soprano but my voice is
so low on that ceiling
mingling with the steam
in the silver vents, don't you
know that

heat

rises?