behind the way you lay
on the morning of Tuesday, December 11th, 2018,
I trace the freckles on your back,
as a morning muse, never to be seen again,
until the scene brings us back together
as musician and wannabe (me).
met at last night's show,
just enough whiskey to make it happen,
just enough sadness to make it real,
hung around long enough to get a t-shirt,
we ate pizza in parking lots
and made our way.
made lost love in peach-colored sheets,
made morning regrets per the last poem,
per last night and once more this morning,
kissing without brushing teeth,
coffee without talking,
blueberries on the balcony.
the walk to the subway
and the walk to work will be
horrendous or smiley, but either way,
it will be the first and the last,
she did not ask me to come,
so I sip on weight for her surrender,
but I am not breaching where I belong.