I miss the way the breakfast burritos tasted
on the day that we moved in.
I miss our empty apartment,
and how we slept on the living room floor
for so long.
I miss 7am poetry
while you slept, restlessly,
in our bed.

I am listening
like a parent, listening
for an intruder, breaking in.
I am crying,
like a child,
like
sweet sympathy
for a friend.

I want to dream of red wine
on white carpet
and red wine
on her blue and white sheets.

There are
hands
scratching at
skin,
she's pulling me in
but I'm running
searching
for an escape
there are hands
pulling me
in
scratching at my
words, at my thoughts
at my skin.
She's pulling me close--
ripping at clothes--
I'm tearing her hair,
we're screaming, it's sin.

I talked to some crazy
[lonely] guy on the phone,
yesterday,
who was trying to sell his
kitchen table.
I wanted to know
How tall is it?
How much is it?
and he, wanted to tell me
the story of how he
got it, and how
it was nostalgic, and how
"Divorce, you know,"
he came to be selling it,
on Craigslist.

Maybe if I
had a kitchen table
I would sit at my laptop
and write.

Hey, I've
seen you around, what's your name?
Where are you coming from/where are you going?
I like your jeans and your old pair of tennis shoes
and that distant look on your face,
I want to know what's inside your skin
and the thoughts behind your silver eyes.
Maybe we could go out for drinks, or maybe
we could
stay in one night.

Here is now and now is

My favorite
time of day
is longboarding to the bus at
six in the morning. My favorite
thoughts are those wholly private
thoughts that aren't of her.
It's through.

Scrawling on a
blank white page; and all
it is, is
blank; white.

The shower drain
that's always clogged.

She's gone.

She's gone.

She's

My skin ignites
and my brain bleeds
(irony)
please,..
Isn't there a song
"I wish we were
freshmen"