had a dream they were
telling me to wake up,
had a dream they told
me i never talk to god
shoving vouchers in
my face to bar me
against the window
yes, i do. I do talk
to him. I do.
so where is he?
where is he?
where is he,
brooke?
and I
was
screaming
*I don't know
I don't know
i don't know
where he is,
I don't know.

(I)
god i don't know if we'll ever
match up quite like we did then
when you were just skin and a
pair of boxers under my hands
and you smelled like cold
chicago air

(II)
i packaged up
my heart after
the last time, after
him, and i was trying to
mail it to myself but i think
some part of it got mixed up
with the cd i sent you so did it
end up at your doorstep did
you put it in your pocket
did you slip it in an
envelope marked
"RETURN TO SENDER"
because if you do not
want it i would like
it back

loving you is being naked
except  m y  transgressions
are written into the sinews
in my muscle, braided into
my hair and mingling with
my blood. For that, loving
you is a vacuum, loving
you is a room filled with
widening spaces until I
am nothing more than
a wick burning from
both                   ends,
l o v i n g   y o u
is a tragedy in parts,
alone in a wheat field,
alone in a school hall
alone in a coffee shop
loving you is being
alone.

you built a house across the
street from my apartment
on the roof of the parking
garage where we shared
part of your last hours in
this town. i asked you if i
could make your space our
space but you shook your
head, did that squinty eye
thing i have come to love,
said "no, gorgeous, not yet"

i am an expert at
unrequited love.
i like to eat it for
breakfast in the
early morning
light of my
kitchen with a
spoonful of sugar
to help it go down
easier.

this is a q u i e t type
of living, I want to get
lost in this sweater or
sink in these shoes,
sometimes I wish
I would drown
in cups of water
or burn up against
the wick of a candle
i've been setting three
alarms to be up before
the sun and it's working
out pretty well but I no
longer find solace in
paints or peace in
lead pencils
the things I
love are made
of rice paper and
dissolve under the
weight of words
and bowls of
honey nut
cheerios
I am at a loss
filled with sighs
filled with sighs
filled with sighs

heads up in
the suburbs
we have the
winning sense
of self control
but get lost in
cups of dark
roast or tall
americanos
with drops
of smoke
and half
n' half

i have tried to build a home inside myself,
one of iron and molten lava and red hot
brick,  but you have snuck your way
through my sealant and made
yourself a space in the very
center of my being.