Doomed.
What should we tell the windows?
The clamor of dreamers in the dark.
Why, why do we drink?
The notes fly into space, wingless.
What time did you wake up this morning?
Half-moons on your skin and mine.
Where do thrown things go?
Kisses, each one harder than the last.
What was your last class again?
The sheets are blank and twisted.
When did you first hear my voice?
Poems, I have realized, are just hands.
Why did I laugh?
The lamp dies in my neglect.
Why did I keep walking?
Tongues are just invitations.
When am I going to need glasses?
Below your ribs are my truths.
How do you treat bruises?
Indecision to touch you.
How is your sore throat?
Names taste like memories.
How would you describe a mistake?
You stand so close to me.
Where did I find you?
Your back, my back. Old friends.
How do I look at you?
Silence of the weary.
How do you look at me?
The moments choose themselves.
Do you look at me?
Between the spaces is eternity.
What is there to look at?
I have you. Had. Sorry.
Do I look at you?
Van Gogh once wrote in a letter: oh my God, it was beautiful.
Yes.
*Yes.