i dreamed of summer flings
and lazy sunday afternoons with
the car windows rolled down
as we tried to claim what was once ours,
sunlight reaching all the parts of you
that i couldn't in the dark.
but now the sun doesn't shine
that much anymore, and winter is
dead and cold, biting off my fingers.
sundays have lost their reputation
to the badly written comics in the
pile of newspapers on the front porch
i neglect to discover, like the memories
threatening to burn on the frayed edges of
my brain, they stay there, wanting to be anything
i can't remember the last time i heard
your voice, when it wasn't raining and you
weren't frowning at me or your reflection or both of us
and something inside me asked if you would stay, please.
and this is what scares me the most,
that we're just another song on the radio between
the static of switching channels,
a photograph that comes out blurry, glanced at through heavy-lidded eyes
when the cigarettes have ran out but the beer hasn't,
a wet towel left to dry on the bathroom floor, growing mold and
poisoning everything it touches.