Nothing about this is poetry anymore.
There is a week’s worth of mail
lying on my doormat
and I change my sheets every morning
because I forget that red wine looks
like blood after a night of drying
and I cannot help but think of your hand
on the back of my neck
like a breath, like two.
I don’t eat until my mother says grace
from across the phone line
but I don’t believe in anything but sinning.
I call into the other room when Friends comes on,
listen for the echo of no one there,
listen for the echo of I’m alone in this house,
hum through the opening credits like
they’ll join me when they’re ready.
Nothing about this is poetry anymore
and I wish someone would walk in on their own,
blow the dust off the mantel,
read stray pages of my books and
dog-ear one for later.
I wish someone would
stay for dinner and leave after,
turn back at the door and yell,
I’m going out, but I’ll be back.
I’ll be back.