the day is paper-thin
and the night is thick
with red-wine-colored
lips and regret.
rooms in Chicago,
rooms in Montreal,
rooms in Kentucky,
all living.
piecing together poems
like minutes and yarn,
spun and spinning
with lost love and found death.
I keep telling myself
to keep telling myself
to give up, but I am stubborn
and I refuse to listen.
it is good to go
and keep going,
bumping into life
and its coincidences.