Untitled

How?
Across the bed the shape of
The shoulders are never yours.
Never your little body,
But only a her or another her.
There is nothing worth dreaming here.
The bed is a burning ghetto. Phosphorus.

All day?
All day I make your body rise to me.
You take your place in imaginary chairs.
I hear nothing but your voice in the radio sounds.
Every drink is your slow tears.
I think only of my fingers on your skin.

The humor?
The humor is you never wanted me.
I never you. The unknown alls.
Now I hear you think.
Your thoughts cloud me.
I at my work while you in yours.

If you left?
If you left the moments collapse.
The matters unmatter.
There is no shelter for what I think.
If you leave, and leave,
Then you were never here.
I would take the life I’ve lived
And bury it within
The wildflowers of the planes.