I am sorry I cannot write about you as often as I think of you-

which is constantly.

When it’s quiet enough to think deeply

I wipe my tears and do the dishes.

When I write you down with ink on paper-

it’s just you and me in here, kid;

but you are not.

I gave us up; and for what? A good tragedy? Some material?

Self infliction? A high? Some drugs?

I don’t even care about that **** anymore-

just You. And the dishes getting done.


-Jesse Haydn