This morning tastes like
my nervous tongue
running across
the back of my teeth
every night this week, when it's late;
and I think about how
I know that it's fate
and how I'm never right.

Times between us are tight,
and we both feel under
the weather that's
seeping under my skin and rotting
love letters I wrote,
but put back.
Soon, things could be better.
So my stupid idle dreams
will replay
as I whisper "I love you,"
and you walk away.