'Talk ***** to me,'
I whisper to you
As the day rubs against our skin.
We'd joke around about
how ripping our shirts would be ****, but never
got around to do it because
the shirts you wore were worth a million bucks.

Then again who knew you'd get worn out.

I breathe in the smell of the detergent you use
too quick that its paper sharp taste cuts me
except I don't bleed.

I patch up the silence between us with scraps
of cloth I found for tomorrow.
A scatter of little flaglets wave shamelessly;
they make fine napkins to wipe away soiled parts of a face.

'Out, ****** spot!'

I pull down a sleeve
I'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry;
Home Economics was never my best subject
I don't know how to sew
Back where we came from.