She levitates
when I write about her,
wherever she is.
Probably reading Denise Duhamel
over a rug
with her feet up behind her.
Her newest guy
is probably in the kitchen
taking care of her.
He is oblivious
to her floating,
and aside from the smile so is she.
I am anchored to the hardwood
with a full untouched glass of Brut,
and Chopin's Nocturnes making the rounds.
and Chopin's Nocturnes making the rounds.
She hits the ground
when pencil stops
and the Typer settles.
This happens because
she doesn’t write anymore,
so the universe warns her.
Meanwhile, I am ripping off bandaids
that cover cuts
from last week's open mic
All the while, the world keeps spinning
until we find out, via social media,
that one of us is dead.