so my glass is always sad, but you're half empty
you need someone else to fill you
I'm beginning to realize
I could write to you every day
a page or more of subtly sexual criticism
would it ever stop feeling special?
-I'm beginning to doubt it
I'm nervous about scorpians on lightswitches,
cursing around children,
and saying something dumb in front of you
I've noticed dramatic pauses don't translate well to other mediums.
my mother's heels are clicking in the driveway.
you're a pile of pages and the color green,
you're a series of list that I'm always revising
I am a bad translation of your poetry
our affections are metaphors, our attentions are prose.
we are a green ray and a red sign
passing through a laser sky,
lights reflected through library windows,
and the idea of a borrowed book.