i build you out of ***** dish towels and empty teacups
clean ashtrays and yellow porch lights
i painted you with cheap restaurant crayons
wrote you with letters off unregistered license plates
decorated you with my mothers stretch marks and stick on earrings

i folded paper airplanes out of tomorrows newspaper
i sent you messages tied to the legs of sparrows
that both forgot how to fly nor knew where to go
i kept our memories under the fireplace
the landlord wouldn't let us use
i carved your name into the dining room table
so every time i had my cup of coffee
i woke up and saw you