You’ve been coming home

mint chapstick and
tobacco pieces stuck to your lips
from poorly rolled cigarettes.
Extra bus fare.
Bottom shelf whiskey and
natural laughter
spilling from your breath.
I keep finding

little post-it notes
shoved into your pockets
pasted with someone else’s playlists.
Some other guy’s suggestions
on how to lift your spirits
when the depression gnaws your joints
like a cancer.;
when you’re too tired to
undress yourself.
And I’m still here

creeping under the covers,
taking keys from your hand,
leaving fresh water on the nightstand.
Gnawing your earlobes
with some panic,
whispering at your hair
with some manic rhymes,
pinning you down with some 
plotted stanzas,
pinning you down with that little curse
about timing.

“the boyfriend”


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