i forget to ask for things;
like no butter on my toast, or
for you to please
please
come home,

either way, the result
conjures up the same
nausea
creeping in my stomach
i
have
gone crazy,
neglecting my own advice to
those who have neglected me, my
sense of self lingering
somewhere on french
canadian pillow cases
from a lost night
of animalia and
wine; i was dripping
down the shingles on that
rooftop before my
sun even had a chance to
rise.

there is a beautiful moment
happening
here while i
am
aching for something real,
conjuring up memories
from moments
of my heart
existing explosive in my
throat; i exist

separately
in bed, and
in the beds of others,
having developed fear
of being
alone.

these
dreams, and reason
produce monsters.

i swallow twice,
recalling a moment when we
were birds;
light-hearted, and
blue-eyed,
wrapped in the
comfort of
some blue quilted desert
morning and
your arms_

it was your arms that
brought me home.