write for myself, for the spaces
between my atoms,
for the spaces between a caress
for the absence and longing,
when a woman, as women are prone,
eventually vaporize and leave you with
a few articles of forgotten clothing and
other detritus, almost purposefully,
so that you find it Weeks or months later.
I write for the days with no beer,
for the nights with too much beer.
I write when there isn't enough to eat
as if i've can satiate themselves with charred
thoughts
or aching soul soup.
I write for you, too, as I write for myself,
which ever you may see it,
whichever eye may brush these rushed errors

(green, brown, blue)
it is yours as it is mine,
just as you are me
entwined in this plane, in this planet together,
like lovers in the sheets
momentarily inoperable.