Jazz n Books

Every heart breaks

on paper

over money

in an artsy café

some French singer

playing the piano

as a thousand messages

flood my phone

and none are from you.

It is slushy and rainy

dark in my soul

my heart literally aches

as I stare at my name

in print

and cry some more

as noone notices

I am using my napkin

as a tissue instead of a paper.

My phone is lighting up with tragedy

and days pass until I finally write

as a kind of therapy. Eat up words

like sugar cubes. Speak French like

a good little québécoise,

Please pour more coffee into

my wound up until I can drink

alcohol. 

The only thing to do 

is take off my clothes

quickly before the numbness

comes back,

before the voices taunt me

of how I can’t write anymore.

Remove each article of clothing

one by one

masterful, you.
Make me forget everything

with one touch.

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