She only calls me
when no one else is home.
Releasing a sigh
with a request for company,
as if I were the lucky one,
someone who must be
waiting by the phone
for the gifted privilege of her voice
saying the words
she thinks
I’ve been waiting
so long to hear.


My skin has always been
my weakest organ.
It splits at the first sign of trouble
and leaves only lighter shaded reminders
that at some point
something happened here.


There’s a man in my building
who’s cough
growls like an outdoor dog.
Nobody likes him
but everybody loves him
and at times like this
it feels like
we’re all just waiting for him to die,
but the neighbors only discuss it with looks
and head tilts
covering up the thoughts they have
in preparation
of what they’re actually
going to say.


I like to have porn playing in the background
when I write poems about you,
it makes it easier to describe your open legs
and moaning mouth,
this is where I am today,
mostly alone in a used apartment
waiting for the phone to vibrate,
for the night to finish
and for the day to rewind itself
into the same old hours
of second chances
and overdue confessions.


I heard you the first time,
but you continued to remind me
as if your love of speaking
had finally collided
with this phrase you’ve been rehearsing
and now
it’s like we’re each standing
in each others dressing rooms
trying on different looks
to save us from looking at each other,
memorizing the way our bodies felt
through guesses and disguises,
mimicking the imitated
where those irritated smiles
never gave us anything
other than warnings.



I search for the trust I can get

before finding the trust I can give.

Always hearing secrets

with double meanings

and never taking note

of the confessions at my door.



I don’t know why I’m happier

away from home than in it,

because the troubles I have

are always following me around

and every

borderline shelter I can find

only protects me

until I realize

that my baggage

will always be rolling on tiny wheels

behind me as I walk.


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