listen to all the songs
like they mean anything more
than a means to pass the time,
as though you were the
one to call at hours
unknown, talking
of what books i
should read

& so that i don't
blame you today ((anymore))
don't give me secret glances,
linger by my conversation,
or press my foolish thoughts
against the foolish floor.

maybe in a thousand wednesdays
i will ask if you would you mind?
& lead me to tell of a thousand
wednesdays before, when we
refused to meet. i think it
quite insane that i
should trace you round &
round again, with a face
on mute, cloaked
in a disinterested
cloth

devastation must be a remedy
to the strangleholdlove
of a ballerina's wrist.