I guess this is about someone else,
but I want it to be about you for nostalgic purposes.

there's something different about wanting to touch your face and actually doing it.
that's how it always is.
you're the black-ink-on-paper-to-get-you-out-of-my-head kind of guy,
you're the never awake past noon because you don't want to deal with reality kind of mind,
you're one of those half-drunk, half-broken, half-idon'tcarebecauseyoudon'tcare kind of lovers.

one day I'm going to quit everything.


the cat laps milk
instead of water
from the palm of a mothers hand,
it's rough tongue leaving
purple lines
broken and deep
like the stretch marks that map her body.

She'll talk to me about her children
and the little things in her life that don't seem to matter much anymore,
and we'll watch people and assume things like people do,
and we'll kiss each other out of boredom
and she'll tell me to braid her hair,
because she wants to feel young again,
and I'll tell her to read me her story,
because I want to feel closer,
and she'll tell me about the cat
and she'll let me pet it
but she wont let me sleep in her bed
or put away the dishes
or kiss her on the days that she wears lipstick.

She reminds me of you,
except she's something I can feel.