even if it looks as if I am living my life
I am always writing in my head
about the time my hydrangeas stopped blooming and turned green
that time I waited inside the Met looking at the Greek statues and you never showed up
going to the top of Tokyo and almost barfing
your manicured hands on my pre-teen skin
the apartment number I lost my virginity in
picking you up after a meeting and having a latte on Chabanel street
Crying in a bathroom with blood on my thighs
confessing to a tombstone
never going to church except for weddings and funerals
loving you more than you ever will
expecting too much from nothing
making lists of dog bones, tablecloths and mouthwash
and still you somehow squirmed yourself into my words again
without ever trying.