he has a house,
with books,
drawers of old clothes
and sacred secrets  
cluttering the floors and walls in every room
he walks to the library  
to escape the heat, the cold
and the treacherous terrain of his past,
to spend the day in the company of strangers
who don’t know he is there, mostly
their home is the alley behind the furniture store  
the windless spot under the bridge
or someplace mocking memories
have no place to hide  
he stares at them
hears their breathing half sleep  
smells them  
envies them
and how they can tell their story
without uttering a word  
he is afraid to be one of them  
after years of hiding from their truth

our relationship
is me wanting to cut off all my hair
because you Let me fall
asleep to you stroking
it,
.
our relationship is
ignored texts
&
read receipts
.
our relationship
is a horrible,
uneven mix of
realism and your romantic tomfoolery,
I don't know how I'll
ever
quit it
.
coffee and cigarettes
on the frosted sidewalk
classical music at 3 am
borrowed
and returned(?) sweaters
tedious and enthralling questions
mutual humor
under the breath
shared breath
streetlights and sunshine
appreciation for life and love
substance in emptiness
.
gossip
harrowing and defiling and
sneaking its way into every interaction,
judgments and standards and
I'm never
ever
good enough
to be like them, those
significant and aware and profound and charged girls
.
it's good for nothing and
I'm afraid
nothing will ever be as good

Leave each day... and watch
my silent words forming stars above you.
Shining, yet dead; Overt within
nights black hollow.