I think
about him
too much. I know
he doesn't think
about me.

And how simple
it was
for me
to fall. And how easy
it was
for him
to get up and get on.

I think,
when I see him,
I think more than I've ever thought
about him, or them,
or anyone.

I think
two people
alone
is better than one-- that two
scars can bleed as much as one-- that
words run hot from the sink to drown out the sun--I think.

How easy it is to say one
thousand words and, still, never quite
enough.