Shaking

Books lying all over the floor.
and I, equally sprawled.
with an incense stick behind my 
ear, vanilla, burning, in a nocturnal 

slow-dance.  
I sweat upon my wool knit blanket
and contemplate the colder, rain of early June. 

Drew all day,
and longed for the

thought of Tarantula 
read out-loud. 

And for the unfinished house

-Just two, not three-

Reading of allusivity;
how it takes 
Nine months to make a baby. 

$3 giant rubbing alcohol wine

So damn gone.

Crying and weeping 
The car had lit on fire;
It was the worst and the best
for three days..

We poured it out whilst a cigarette burned in our hands

The bridge shook

And we walked to the roses that danced to semi's 
You, wearing that dress and your slipper boots and my Indian jacket.

As the night dimmed into city lights

She wrote some poem

You yelled into the phone

I screamed curses
and we shook and shook from
cold and fright and energy.

Laughing. And because she was there,
we held each other tight…

I lay my head buried in your arms

Tears, threatened me but slipped out

Slowly instead.

I missed the one 
(who’d once been most important of all to me).

You stroked my hair.

and told me

nothing (and 
it was perfect).

She shook in sobs, but

It may as well have been me who wept.

We pissed in your backyard and laughed so loud.

Then fell back into the couch and floor among the

Shelves of books and boxes of shit..

And slept.

(she sits there while I read and write and draw.

She sketches and writes poems and talks
and talks and talks.)

You, the one who's never bored.

I miss how we converse.

The philosophizing.

How you and I make sense of the world.

The 4am conversation; I
was talking and talking and you 
were listening and everything, 
the whole world, made such sense.

It must have been another world