she makes me dinner, i pour drano down the sink

each
and everytime
i reach
for a hand
and pull it into
that cave
that is my chest.

they find me
right at that very moment
when my eyes
and that clock attached to me
drop
in that toilet.

you love me
and i love you
and once again
we sleep inside
some holy grail
until our weight either cracks
or
solidifies the skin

and the only thing that we know
is that we will dwell
in this darkness
until we recognize
that hand
that feeds us
orbs of light.

sound proof

i pour another glass of wine
guided
by nothing more
than the porch light leaking through
the bars
on the kitchen window.

everything is quiet
right now.

everything sounds like
the blue light peaking out the window
from the top story
across the alley,

and if the train heading towards forest park wants to be heard,
someone else must be listening
nearer
farther stops down the line.

lauren is sleeping
in a room
about 20 steps away.
i count the steps
in my head like wood planks
leading
to a beach.

and besides this silence
and the sound of wine
pissing
into a glass cup,
this is my only comfort.

the duration of a bottle

it was easy.

i uncorked
and sprang
this bottle of wine
that i drank tonight.

it escorted me through
a plate of tortilini,
a game of scrabble,
and a conversation of
the various shades of blue
to paint the bedroom.

half way through
i laid in bed with her.
she wore a long shirt,
i wore the same clothes i
was covered in
this morning,
even the wrinkled shirt,

nothing was finished,
but she went to sleep. 

and before i was done,
seth and i messaged back
and forth
on why catherine should be
in chicago this weekend,
but nothing was resolved.

and now,
with the entire world's hands
folded in silence
i imagine what's left
as i absorb the last drop
of this bottle.

january patterns

the days
add up like snowflakes
that land
on a sidewalk
leading to
an abandoned home.

here,
there is no shovel,
no footprint,
not even a hand
scratching
for a snowball,

but there is always some sound
in some distance
yelling
at us,
tickling
us,
poking at a center
that we hardly remember
even being there.

at some point
even the those gods
must believe in this.

everything
that we are
is either ice
or
that one hour of a sun ray
that melts everything
into something
a little more fluid.