it's been eight months.

I pulled the clouds straight
out of the sky with that one,
brought my fist down on your
sternum, with my face buried
into your ribs, a shirt draped
over your face. For the first
time you sounded mad, your
voice was a thick alarm,

I ask you why it took so
**** long and your guitar
falls to the side of where you
never play for me like this
again and you say you're
sorry. And those clouds
that I tied down have
finally wrung off,
and I tell everyone
that I still love you.

you are
still my
writer's
block.

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?

at the end of the
day i am just a girl
who wears red lipstick
and watches too many
movies to be considered
sociable.
please  know  that if  it
ever comes down to it
i will still pick you.
regardless of what
you did to me, it
will always be
you.