"I want to write poems"
I said to you
And you said "about what"
And I thought
about
The empty beer bottles on the end table
And
the stale blankets on the bed of that hotel room
The couch we left ourselves on
Our last times
you looked at me
And you didn't look away
Even when I spoke to you from the aches between my hips
The chapstick
glossing over your lips
Like my tongue fresh against them
when you'd raise your voice
And I'd leave the room
realizing out in the dark parking lot that I forgot the room key
and having to ask you
Softly
Slowly
Again to open the door
and you'd say
"I can't do this"
And I'd tell you
You needed to learn how to feel
How to talk
And you looked at me and you said
"About what"
