call me when your flight lands in Munich
and we can discuss
how the cinder blocks
standing stationary in the walls
like cold queen's guards
meet so seamlessly
they touch so cleanly
never a crack, never a pore
call me when your flight lands in Tampa
and we can talk about
all of the clothes on the floor
folding and crinkling
discontinuing continuum
they haven't been touched since July
and when you call,
we can talk about how they
make my room smell like
gasoline
let me know when you land safely in Munich
and I'd be happy to go on
about the smell of the parking garage
equal parts old rain and new exhaust pipes
and the open air
underneath the moon; so close
that I will grab it out of
the closet sky
and give it to you instead of saying:
I'm so fucking sorry
let me know when you land safely in Tampa
and we can assume the position
of conductors
of a grand orchestra
of lost crickets and cracking bones
of the dogs barking at
spilled black ink
and chasing the painted Sun
and maybe when the song is over,
we will clean up the mess
and be able to fall in love
with nothingness