unwritten poems in my head
harmless moths on the mirror
black coffee that scalds the tongue
i pluck my eyelashes out of boredom
i look out my window
two boys on a bike
laughing with their heads tipped back
i write poems for friends
i stay up till the witching hour
writing poems for you
night dreaming
of you, you're tall and mysterious
a shadow in the mountains, a lovely lonesome figure on the living room couch
can you call me please? - i
used to text you,
and you would call
without bothering to text back
such was your ease with me
now i am cooking up reasons
to talk to you
hey, how are your new friends?
(are you eating well nowadays babe?)
look at this old picture of us i found!
(are you also looking for reasons to talk to me?)
when did we start needing reasons to talk to one another?
i feel like the sigh that a woman lets out after a long day of work at the run down store. i feel like the little boy crying in the corner of his room because his crayons got lost. i feel like the old man sitting on a wooden armchair,
wishing i'd tried harder to hold on to my loves
i'm an owner of tired eyes, a
weak body, and a capricious smile . i'm
a writer of unusual love stories
and unwinding poems . and i just am.
am i
incomplete?
i don't remember
what it was like when you were
by me. it was light and airy, i remember that much.
i was never sad. but
i also remember crying. i don't know
what for, though. why would i cry
as long as you loved me? can you
just call me please? my landline
is still the same.
do you remember it still? don't you probably have it written somewhere?
yours is in the inner pocket of my wallet, bright pink stickie, your name
written in my simple black script, such
tenderness in the lines and curves of it. i was 13
then. i'm still just as weak for you. like gossamer
of a butterfly wing. sand colored
satin of an evening gown. baby's breath
and mother's touch. cigarettes after sex at 4 am.
please, please, just call
me, i miss the sound of your voice - the way it used to come to me, on saturdays, on tuesdays, in the evenings, and by midnights,
grainy and loving, curious and homely. i can't
stop searching for home. i don't think i'll ever find it in anyone
except you, sweetheart,
please.
