I am the dark sheets
And I am the dark car seats
And I am a dark carpet floor
Beneath a dark leather couch
And I am the dark motives
of a dark 3 am
with a dark sky
streaked by dark clouds
I have dark eyes
And a dark mouth
My dark hands move in the dark
She said you’re dark
I am afraid

She had a lot of poetry
They were more of broken apart stories
With more specific details
And an excessive enjambment
But I loved them
And I loved her
And she used to write about grocery carts
And snow drifts under streetlights
And I think once she penned a story of our skin and her senses
When I was her lover
But now she writes of war and poverty
And other worldly issues from around the world
I still write about her

She told me that I had a lovely neck
And she used to run her fingers across it
And around it
And push her lips and tongue against it
And pull it back between her teeth
And she would say I had a lovely neck
And to never let it get dirty
From soot or grass or sweat
Or time
But we both got older
And my neck got dirty
And I broke out and I got sweaty
And I fell in the soot and the grass
And she told me that I used to have a lovely neck
I don’t blame her


That fucker had eyes like God.
Yeah, he did, but at least he listened. That’s gotta count for something.
Maybe. Maybe not. But he’s gone now, sure as shit he won’t be coming back.
Yeah. Maybe we’ll end up missing him?
I have my religion.
Yeah, but nothing like him. Maybe he will come back. Maybe once a few years from now he’ll come back through those doors and save us.
I have my religion.
Yeah?
Yeah.