when old wounds
are still too hard
to stare in the face,
you will find me looming between
the waistline of your underpants
and the ellipsis at the end of your
open palm.

i give you a blowjob
in the rocking chair and
when you grab handfuls of my hair and
sip your maneshevitz
i do not need you to tell me
that this is what you wanted
or that this makes sense for us right now.

it doesn't matter what you say.
i do not love you.
you are just something to throb beneath me
to say, "see? you are alive."

after we fuck for the second time
you rest an open hand over my left tit
and turn on "lost".

i blow my smoke out your bedroom window
and think about someone else
while you run little circles with
your index finger over my nipple.
you fall asleep with your mouth open
and it is a lonely murmur of the television
and the steady rain that rocks me into an anxious rest
that knows that this is not where home is.

03/31/2010

Posted on 03/31/2010
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