It's hard to meet new people
they're so foreign
they do things like wear hats
and play baseball
they listen to bad music
they like crossword puzzles
I don't like to hear them talk
but
      at night
when I get very cold
and sometimes it hurts to breathe
I'd like one of them next to me
or I'd like to hear them talk
anything to make me warm again
I can't have it all
but sometimes
I want it.

A well-rehearsed dance,
the waltzing waitress tosses The Times
on table 1 as if she’ll actually finish
the Sunday crossword this morning.
She won’t.

Grease lined lights flicker on one
by one.
Like spotlights on a stage.
It’s show time.

Twostepping while taking down chairs,
she flows to the rhythm of ritual,
across a worn checkered dancefloor.
No applause.

In a dining room of Astaire’s and Rogers
she is the coffee choreographer.  
Pirouetting to the ***,
then a sidestep, quick! Quick!
Slow.

Warming up now, she stretches.
Switching on the metal machinery.
It grinds and growls as if it prefers
decaf.

Rings from rusted bells
hanging from the door chime
to the beat. This is her
cue.

It's hard to meet new people
they're so foreign
they do things like wear hats
and play baseball
they listen to bad music
they like crossword puzzles
I don't like to hear them talk
but
      at night
when I get very cold
and sometimes it hurts to breathe
I'd like one of them next to me
or I'd like to hear them talk
anything to make me warm again
I can't have it all
but sometimes
I want it.

You say Hey
to see if I’ll say Hey back.
You take great meaning
out of it, I do it out of
common courtesy.

You ask me how I am,
not because you care,
because you want me
to care about you.

Laying your burdens
on me, because I clearly
look strong enough
to hold them.

You’ve filled every
line on my hand, and
now I really wouldn’t
have room to hold
anything because your
hand is always there.

You kiss me
just to see if I’ll
kiss you back.

You test boundaries,
you lay more than just
your words onto me,
that I try to make
into a crossword puzzle.

You plant your hand
on my thigh, my stomach,
trying to link the
the points of my body.
But I’m not made out of paper.
I am not written in Braille,
you don’t have to touch me
to know my story.



You were trying to
cover my skin with
memories of you,
and that’s why
I cover them up.

When will you learn
the point of loving
isn’t to be loved back?

I’m done trying to teach you,
you’re not my problem
to solve anymore.