i'm tired of talking too much about everything
how all i can think about is your hand in my hand, falling asleep
all the last years and their unreplicable, fleeting possibilities

and my apologies, truly
if my teeth are too sharp; if your skin was unwilling
for how many apples we ate instead of peaches
how many poems i wrote out of bitterness
for the trauma of childhoods we haven't learned to live with
that i place too much blame on my situation
that we write each other into poetry and compare the wounds by the words without having to let them loose privately or censor them
so we vape about it? shake about it? unsubscribe from tweets about it?  
talk only about how all roads lead me to your street because i only know how to get home from east to east.