Seventy-nine days ago I walked home in early
September wearing a smell
of you.
You said once, while massaging my back,
tense and fickle, but folding
under your hands;
“We're all off hun. It's a matter of increments.”
Today, moving back and forth in this building
It's rough-cut stone walls a consolation,
I think, borderline obsessively,
You don't know what to do
with a woman like me,
do you?