Response/with your words ~or~ If You Can

fuck your buffering, Friend.

ay.
these months
call upon her being.
call one
her call.
home –
all
her
Call.

you are but you
with your writings
imprinted audience.
incant the passing of her soul
into coming.
bring the one.

her

You used to sleep with your hands between your thighs.

It’s time you withered and died
Before you become my enemy
Before you make up three corners
Of my already empty room.

Time we fought.
Time you did me a favor
And told me to go away.

I’ll do me a favor
And stop asking questions.

It’s time I used my pillows as
Comfort for my restless head
Rather than a breathless
Loveless
Recreation under my sheets.

It’s time you withered and died
Before I become my enemy
Before I become just another corner
In my ever silent room.

Hitch

You have been talking for an hour now
and I suffer you patients more than any
other could.
I suffer because I am
the only person who understands.

After all these years you finally mention this
fact to me
and I am keenly aware
of the consolation prize for being a decent man.

I don’t flinch
I never did
I don’t say much
I’m not supposed to.

My role, tonight, is to listen to stories of
divorced father of one
interested in your
Hair,
Eyes,
& Breasts;

The smile and laughter of your body,

while I die slowly
syllable
by
syllable

because my heart resides westward
and I’m stuck in this fucking city,
this fucking station
having decided to miss the train with you.
For you.

And it’s lucky, I guess,
that my heart is just small enough
not to choke on when I swallow.