You are the only one who knows this.
You are so beautiful,
so exquisitely pale.
You have me at the door of my car,
but first I want to tell you what I think.
I find you face-down on someone else's bed,
and I tell you that
you betrayed me.
By bottle, by stove, by bong,
you were unfaithful.
You said you could take a year to lick me off
your fingers.
If I were dust in the sad afternoons,
you'd pause at the windowsill and breathe me in
so deep you'd get dizzy.
That you could stand me up against the wall
of your mother's neat room and keep me there
until I dripped into your hands, too weak to
drive away.
But you'd rather have me pity you.
Instead of a thousand pussy willow branches,
you're leaving all your problems on my stoop.
You are so emaciated and dull.
Your eyes are so purple and your hair so sparse.
You're asleep, the way I want you to stay
forever.
If you're gone those lips can't suck on a pipe;
grope a fistful of uppers to feel fine.
Your can breathe the dust off this pillow,
not my body.
If you're inanimate I won't resent your trespasses
against me.
In inexistence you won't haunt me anymore.