saturday?s coffee
became pieces between my fingers.
I tore ?help me? from the styrofoam and meticulously formed the letters on the floor
there were small deposits of sugar and swallow
there were uncooperative floor tiles.
They keep it freezing in here.
I can tell it?s warm and windy outside
the kind of day when the sun turns its face away from you for a minute, and you feel the unwelcome advance of her cold moon upon your thigh.
Deceptively beautiful.
that?s what my mother used to say.
There?s this bed.
And some blankets
and someone in it,
but not me.
I?m off somewhere trying to figure you out
the fact that I care at all about it is what makes me crazy.
The effort?s something else entirely.
Between trying to understand and caring about the answer,
you live in my head more than I do.