last night, i saw your arms, freckle-flecked and willow-wristed,
spun around waists, eyes aloof and denim-washed blue nothings,
and i choked on a history of arms too similar
and oracles emanating the same cool palette
and the same fidgeting strangeness and i had to ask,
why do i jump into bed with falsehoods
and let them strip me bare to nothing,
a pile of cold bones, colder trust?
i pick up yesterday's dress off the carpet,
it was so pretty before it touched the floor
and i find that cloth is hollow, like forever,
and without bodies to fill it it's a flimsy rag
and it's just garbage
i'm so sick of garbage
i have too much in common with piles of trash and morning-after dresses
to ever feel worthy of a
throne, or a hanger,
or a body that doesn't exult in another's, soft snow mountain explorer,
when i shut my eyes or turn to river cabins isolated.
i'm placeholder for the fantastic.
in the end, i'll have no name
i'll just be a former distraction
so why not start now.
i wish our mouths could touch without smudging
but i'm still waiting for you to whisper
that i'm nothing.
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