you're sincerely welcome

the city makes

a humming sound

and answers my

questions honestly

under its sleepy tones

as the windows

smile with their hands

waving in the wind

like flags from open panes;

and the sounds

of the cars

coming to a complete

halt as if all life

was extinguished is not

a welcome home

but an apology.

we have dialog here

like two guitars

whose voices dont match

we make ugly noises

that splinter in on themselves

like a double negative

and you're sincerely welcome.

I woke up this morning

and remembered everything;

the wrinkles in the paper

that were wrapped

around the words

like a blanket, keeping

them tightly packed

in between the lines

like yours always were

left to be interpreted by

the darker and slower

parts of the brain.

the clock by the bed reads

noon and my eyes feel

like 3:17 am in the room

with no windows where

we sleep every night.

where the door is always ajar

and the machines never

get turned off, leaving the

hum to be heard from

bathroom to hallway,

hallway to door, door

to bed. Always asking

if this is alright, in the

wake of whats left

of the dream we were having.

5 am is the hardest

place that I have

ever weathered,

whether alone or

not I find myself

concentrating on the

cracks in the hands

at her side, caught

in the streetlight

on the fire escape,

two steps down

from where her

last kiss found me;

lost in lungs full of

smoke and mouths

full of smiling teeth

all with their own agenda.

follow the line from here to there

and you will find out what its like

in the hours spent telling stories

like your favorite book, lost in the

spines on the shelf to be found at

a very convenient time later only

to be sat down and forgotten again.

every day the hole opens up a little more

and I climb a little further down

with a light behind my eyes

hiding like a smile, but darker;

she spoke soft and intent

and without pretense

keeping the words in

front of her so as not

to lose her place in

the conversation. and

when they ran out

she just kept going

her purpose finding itself

after a few sentences like

walking on familiar ground

during the new moon.

in the dark corner I blow

smoke rings at the shaft

of light that falls out of

my kitchen window to

break on the alley below

spelling out someone elses

words before dissipating

and finding their way back

to where they came from;

the doorways blocked

keeping us from the places

we aren't meant to go. In

my dreams the signs say

keep away in a fashion that

I am not accustomed to,

the sense of dread setting in.

there are days when I wake up in the post of pressing times and spend the hours looking for my place like a transient; my eyes scanning the places where skin meets skin, tracking the scent of something lost then found and lost again.

im sleepy and

the suns breath is

hot on my neck.

there are days still

where i wish i had

never met the sun.

down the street

from where I grew up

i saw my first blood moon

and the concrete there

keeps all my recorded histories

like a library of my days.