there are certain times i think of you
(the you who sat
turning pages to the ends of books and
cutting holes in newspaper bellies)
when sunday morning coffee cups stack
unwashed, bloodied rust crusted
in circular corners.
when there are bus rides to the next town,
wheels lulling me to sleep
singing david bowie (not even your
namesake) to the corners of my brain
where memories still lie
unwanted, unwished for, and undeniably
there to dream about.
when there are early morning raindrops
gritty evidence slurring
down the gutters, dragging cigarette butts
(that you always hated) to drown.
when i drown out thoughts of you,
acid to devour my liver.
when i can't sleep at night and i
can only think of you.