Poetry & Prose

3:39 in the morning (the poem I never wanted to write)

I had to change all my passwords—my wallpaper and screensaver, too

Every month on the 15th I sent you a text telling you how lucky I was to fall asleep in your arms, when I was lucky and
Fall asleep on Skype, if distance stood between us like infinity

Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck

They tell you
That love, never leaves you unexpectedly, more
Like a neighborhood cat that makes your porch his regular spot and then one day

Doesn’t show up
And you know
He’s had his full… dinner
is over
Yet still, here I stand with little kitten paws
Lying across my keyboard
I done let a boy break my
With the force
Of fifty freight trains
The hands
I kissed.

After you came home from work
Around my waist like a seatbelt
Like an airbag
Do you know, that my body went through the windshield?
Why… did you have to press so hard on the breaks?
Pull the wheels

Right from under me
Have you washed them since you last ripped my heart out
Is the residue

Of my love for you
Stuck in between your fingertips like mud

And dust
All this is
Tears and dust
All this is ash
And nothing

I am torn like the flag of a conquered nation given independence only after it has lost the war.
You colonized and ravaged, you
My soul, boy
My fingertips that will never forget how your neck feels at 3:39 in the morning
With infomercials in the background
“As seen on TV…”

I never wanted to write this poem but it seems as though
the signal is breaking up.

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