dirty hands

i mistake my fast beating pulse for his
my palms sweat and i wipe them on my jeans
i haven't worn jeans in years
i try to convince him, high, that that sound
is his heart beating
but it's mine.
this will probably be the
last poem i write about you.

zing

the year is almost over
what do you have to
show for it besides some more
knotches on your belt?

you think "i love you" is overrated

i ask him why he never left me when he had a chance to get out-
to run and hide
and he replies with "when?"
and i thought i made them all so dramatic that way, that way he would remember them
and i wouldnt have to remind him or myself, "oh, you know when i overdosed and was in the hospital" or
"when i was sleeping with so and so and told you about it" or "all those times i left and slammed your door".
am i so fucked up that i cant see that this is it?
who is giving who chances to leave?
and who is really telling the other person- "i love you"??

clever nights turning into holiday mornings

sometimes i wonder why i still like you
waking up in the morning with beer and cigarettes
on our, your breathe
things dont look too attractive in that light of yours.
but the holiday mornings give us something to say to each other
instead of just "bye".

unfinished-----

i'm almost out of lipstick and
perfume and soul.
and i mean the type of soul
that moves your hips when you hear music
and the type of soul that gets in your blood
when you hear people talking
passionately about something important.
and you know i always mean the type of important
like which record you listened to while making love with
him or her.
and what you were doing the night you got pregnant.
your soul is running out along with your
lolita lempicka and your ruby woo
and sometimes these things are just too
expensive to replace.

dear holden

you find it strange that i bring my book to
bed with me.
but i know full and well that
you won't give me any passion-
 that i must make it up in my mind,
forget about it or move on to
someone else.
that even when we watch shitty television together, you sit on
an opposite chair and never look over at me.
but it's still you i wake up next to even if my dreams
are of a previous lover or a future fuck.
the books make you keep your distant because
you know their far more important to me,
that those men in those books mean
more to me then you ever will.
that it's their words that get tattooed on my body
that it's their characters that keep me company when
i'm upset and keep smiles on my face
i run to them instead of you now
and i take them to bed
maybe in hopes that you'll get jealous
and pull your body over to me
touch my shoulder in the night to see if i'm
still awake, ask if you could touch that part of me
or maybe this part..
maybe you, the writer should write your own novella.

haruki murakami makes me depressed

the weather has gotten chilly
coldness drapes the body like a cloak.
no need for the air condition inside the house anymore.
you open the windows and let that autumn breeze blow in
and he's still there, sitting by my side, stares with returning stares
then smiles with my longing and lust- after him like a velvety trail of smoke from a
cigarette. the knowing of resistance is prominant, the sadness weighs heavy in
the chest along with the goosebumps and beauty marks by the breast.
another fall, another dark winter, another year.
and he won't leave me, we both know that.
those secrets about the winter, we know those too.
we know that with the coldness comes my sadness more and more
and that the only thing that cures it is warmth. so we wait
and maybe pray but always cross our fingers that
it skips us this season, this year, this time.