A knot is tied using my small intestine,
but I keep forgetting the reason
for my ultimate indigestion.
So if she will touch me any softer,
I'll let her into those inner-workings
that cloud me with thoughts of her,
but I swallow them and am left choking on copper
like a child eating pennies for an easy dollar.

She comes and goes in patterns,
keeping the shades drawn
and letting newspapers pile on the lawn
as she blows sultry smoke
from her cracked bedroom window.
And I know she's feeling low,
but I wish she would throw me a bone—
or at least something to gnaw on.

I'm choking on words caught somewhere
between my stomach and lips,
feeling bare; naked, counting the tips
that were tucked slowly into the underwear
wrapped in lace around my hips,
trying to remember the last time
that I—or she—was happy.