There are days I'm not my own,
I think you're walking in my shoes.
I want them back.
I expect to see you in the mirror.
Every piece of the day is flecked
with salt and pepper you,
seasoning stale words of yours I
don't want the taste of
but can't forget,
that threaten to spill
from my mouth
unannounced.

I touch you slowly in my dreams.
Is it me or you?
You take a deep breath when my
hand finds you again
after all this time.
Like there's no one in the world who
knows those places.
A secret language of shadowed flesh.

I wake sweaty and
flushed with ***** dreams.

I must be you today.

I make a bowl of Dada oatmeal.

I don't read the newspaper. How often did we let those sit outside anyway? Pile up against the garage door like a savings account of stories of passing life. Why spend this day reading about last?

No, we'd crawl back in bed instead. I'd pull the sheets over our heads and we'd kiss in the dark.

Late! I'd watch you tie your tie and slick your hair.

Make you a coffee and write you a love letter on the paper cup.

"Any **** can roll up in a suit.."

Now, you're two thousand
miles away.
I listen to that song
lying on the floor of my
steaming shower.
Droplets gathering around
my *******,
my stomach rises and falls,
contracting sharply as I
hold my breath,
imagine it's you I'm
touching in secret
shadowed places and
I'm throbbing, begging for
your glorious epiphany,
like I'm always
pleading with you for
something.
I arch
my back and suddenly
find I have nothing
to dig your nails
(which are really mine!)
into.
Remember you're gone,
but still, aghast,
I can't shake you. I'm
you today, I know too well.

You don't
satisfy me but you won't
let me be.

Self-righteous and alone,
you always bit your nails anyway.