you smelt like goodbye
like the last caress of a septic leg,
your bright nails on my face, trying
to dig me out of these glassy eyes,
maybe resuscitate me with a kiss
on the wet asphalt, to tease the billboards
that its neon cyanide always works.
i’ve moved into emptier rooms
with my made-up name
and a drain clogged with heartache.
at yard sales, I look for the happy kids;
they want a piece of my longing
as an escape,
as an enacting of their songs,
for a whisper that sounds like you.
the chairs on the last train are cold,
i see endless stories in my window,
bright dots in a fading picture,
perhaps, i’m perfect in this stillness
i’m not living, i’m not loving you,
just awaiting judgement or a conclusion
of this experiment you abandoned.