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Today your name came up again
Leaving me with this familiar feeling way down my throat
Tasted like love
But wasn't quite

Every so often the vastness of the milky galaxies
In my cup of coffee
Remind me
Of these feelings I had for you

Yet all it adds up to
are a lot of feelings that turned cold and bitter
Like that coffee in my hand that I have been staring into

Caffeine gets you high for a moment
A good man's hug might work a whole
long
life
Why am I sitting in a bathtub crying at 8 pm
When there is still love between you and me
It's just harder to find
In conversations that drag on for hours in minutes
Leaving us speechless and crying
On the bed where we used to make love
How do two people that love each other decide to break up
And how do they not
The love I lost is now collecting dust
Like a book read long ago
Pages untouched for years

I vaguely recall the story
But the details are gone
What was your mother’s name again?
And your eyes,
were they blue or grey?
Do I know how things ended or
Did I make up an alternate story in my head?

In time the words that echoed in my head
The words you had said to me
Making up the story of you and me
Were replaced by silence
And when I imagine you talking to me
My own voice
Fills the blanks

A favorite book
Now discarded and almost forgotten

And you,
are you reading it to yourself sometimes-
the story of you and me?
Two semicolons
Head to head
Toes to toes

Breathing in the scent of sleep
Until breaths come as a regular meter
And only iambic snores disrupt the silence-
Poetry in the making.
No dust-specks
All A’s
Perfect picture in a perfect frame

Pretty nails
A smile all white
Perfect wedding
Perfect life

All I wanted was perfect
Maybe I still do
But maybe this ‘perfect’
Might **** ‘me and you’

So the moment comes
And it’s stay
Or it’s leave
I fight for the imperfection
That is you
That is me

Between tears and vulnerability
Between what’s dream and what’s real
The flaws matter less
Who needs perfect?
Give me real.
Bukowski is for the lonely nights
Thinking too much, feeling too much
Turning from one side of the bed to the other-
Not sure what I am looking for but neither does he
So the book is my anchor
Helping me to sink to sleep
At last
At last

So far from a bachelor pad in a great American city
From drinks in my hand and cigarette smoke up my lungs
But so close to feeling that life should offer more
Than money,
***
The famous rock n’ roll

Bitter old man
If I ever fall asleep though,
I’d like to have a drink with you

Tell me how to feel like a millionaire
As I stretch in my bed and rise-
In the middle of the night
Referring to Bukowski's 'millionaires'
  Sep 2015 Natascha Kracheel
Mike Essig
by Sarah Law**
You love the way my hair falls
over your bones, your prone body, how
I choose to cover you with words
so close to your own. From here
I can't imagine why we ever worried,
even the span of my hand, small
compared with yours, fits to your plan.
I write you down in barely perceptible
whispers, just so I know you exist;
you look for patterns that promise us
an ultimate alignment. It's so crystal clear,
the night sky's X-ray. Bright with symmetry.
I can't expose myself to this often;
I'd end up broken, on the floor,
like a cutting waiting to be swept
clean of its own implications. Tether me
to this quiet language. This one prophecy.
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