of your innumerate smiles,
and determined
chained myself
to this desk.
This play is for
you. Don’t pretend
that I’m not here
or that I’m actually
interested in this book.
I once read Harry Potter
Seven in one night.
That night was for
you. How does it feel
to be latchkey on
an evening in february?
I once left a pile of
feathers at your door.
That morning was for
gotten to the wild scent
of phoenix soaring over
the skyline spring to
September, rotten for
gotten under the weight
of a rigid circle.
That poem was for
you. It had many clichés
all of which I felt we
had deserved. But all
that I felt slipped easy
‘neath an impertinent
rock. A lonely ant!
Only proper to squish
when crawling alone.
That murder was for
you, we decided for
the greater good, that
the greater good consisted
of our combined estates.
And found out how the
floor tastes. Littered with
tranquil to-do lists
and delicate bras.
That outpour was for
you, delving deep into
a yearold cata-dream.
Am I being serious?
Or am I desirious.
Damn Kerouac flaring
up again in my own
cataclysm of a work hour.
This day was for
my other and less lazy
self. I have nothing
nice left to say to you.
I have stripped my palate
of everything sweet
and stuck it to the window
of my most vulnerable self.
This play is for
you. Every word of it
came from my perfect
memory of you. And
your words are in there
too. The ice is melting
elsewhere and there
seems only one thing
left to do. This play is for
you.
Maybe it
will start our friendship
anew.
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