maybe/
                I shouldn't stop caring.

but it's so much less deadly
than jumping in front of
your
bullets.

things I need to say:
it's         about the words.
       not

teeth curled over lips
'I see.'
              'I don't think now's a good time to talk.'
'The neighbors will be back in an hour.'
                                                          ­                       'It's okay.'
'We'll all be dead by then.'


this isn't us.
(the television was turned up too loud for anyone to fall asleep.
   a hangover turning on a leather couch.
    "I need my jacket to go home.")

I wonder if you moved
because you could feel
us breathing at the same
pace, or if you understood
my heartbeat.

the past:
memories.

cut:

with emotion.

I bet we could make
some money if we
learned to strip:
that all away.

if space could translate
thoughts onto blank pages
and into color spotted images,
would you hang mine on your walls?
or would you throw them away?

you were copper.
the kind that's sticky
and melted.

you were a slotted spoon.
dripping and a mess
spilling out
all over the kitchen
floor.

you were a drain
clogged with cotton
candy colored hair.

dreams take place of memory:

I can't
:fold the way:
you do.

you can die whenever you want,
but you can't live.

matching sweaters:
it was nice to see you today.

lumps of cat fur scattered over
the **** carpet of my brothers
hallway.

he says he's going to give me
a hug tomorrow.

I don't know what to say
as I stare at his unshaved face.
His eye's are more worn than
the voices that scream up the
stairs to him. He looks at me
as if he's trying to memorize:

this moment:
t   r   u  t   h
   r  u   t   h  t  r  u  t  h
      u  t  h  t  r   u  t   h  
         t  h  t  r  u  t  h
            h  t  r u  t h
               t  r  u  t  h
                       p
                          o
                             u
                                r
                             ­     s
                                      out.

these open spaces were born the same way we were:
                                         only opposite.

it's okay if we don't know what time it is,
she's got that whole look together
like it were a saturday afternoon and
she has the whole world at her feet stones.

******.

she like's her mother but she doesn't
know her father, she's hated her brother
but she hasn't met the rest of them, not
to mention her sister.

she doesn't like to write about herself
it's like she's looking through water.

her knuckles are read with kool-aid
and she can feel where she needs to be felt.
when did that part of the body begin to exist?

(what kind of man does it take to resist?)

she's written letters that will never be sent.

"hand delivered is the way to go,"

another drag
from the holder of a cigarette,
about 11-inches from
her covered face,

"because then you can watch them
read it."

a smile spread
and wrinkles saw what they were.

I'm not saying you shouldn't dream, just,
this isn't the place.

I know how she wakes you up in the morning,
like she's got somewhere to go that's important
and you're already, a day or two or eight, late.

Your handwriting reminds me of chocolate chip pancakes
and the smell of rain through an open window in February.
You shouldn't press down so ******* your eraser.
It confuses people. Always sounding like sneakers
rubbing against linoleum and it's misleading when
you have feelings you can't explain and you've
been waiting for what feels like three days without
taking a ****, but you're waiting because you don't
want to miss something important, and even though
it hurts the way bee stings, and paper cuts, and
too many donuts after dinner hurt,
you hold it.

It's hard to keep my eyes open.

thinking of you on the nights we didn't sleep,
or the ones where we would sleep wide awake
but we wouldn't talk.
I'd talk. you would listen.
you liked it and I needed it, so it made sense
for us to be in the same room.
I got lost in something you asked me to explain.

"time to dance,"

your reason:

"No one's watching, just let go."

I know.
I'm alive .
when I see.
your blue eyes.

and don't care.

Listening to library tapes
in the moist of my breath
and the dry of my lips,
which are cracked
and peeled,
like oranges,
(chocolate ones).

I missed you today,
and every other day,
but I can't get over
the way time passes
and the way I want it:
to stop.

I've stolen words
from every part of you,
and I've hidden them too.