He staggers like a heartbeat,
taking slow, cigarette drag steps
down the sidewalk,
savoring the familiar step
of his shoes.

He clucks his tongue against
the clock like a beetle,
midnight blue utterances
flying voraciously out of
his mouth with a sense
of raging style.

He tilts his head when asked a question,
crooks his elbow when offered warmth
from the sun,
leans his jaw to the right when
he kisses her lips.

He told me he was trying to be
twenty three degrees to a parallel line,
but I think he’s just trying to stay
crooked to his image,
breaking the bones of his reputation
in order to remain as
a mirage. 


Fuck him.

Fuck him for his secrets. Fuck him and his heart, his ripe, red heart. Fuck his talent. Fuck the way his fingers leave traces on the guitar. Fuck his beer. Fuck his stupors. Fuck the chair he sits in. Fuck his drugs, his coke lines, the pills he insists that he must snort. Fuck his favorite jacket. Fuck the rasp of his voice. Fuck his bong water. Fuck the way he said, “I love you”. Fuck his cheating. Fuck the money that always leaves his hands. Fuck the promises he meant to keep. Fuck his past. Fuck the job he comes home from. Fuck his secrets, the ones he scrawls on the cracks of bricks. Fuck his present and his lazy eyes that always wander away. Fuck his future and the way it curves into a question mark. Fuck his lips and how soft they were. Fuck the sex. Fuck the boy you thought you fell in love with, that you’re still in love with. Fuck him.

Fuck me.

Fuck me for loving him, for believing the twist of his spine. Fuck my limbs for giving in and holding him, for accepting everything about him without words to speak out. Fuck me for caring. Fuck me for not kissing him fully. Fuck me for the sex and how dull I made it become. Fuck the semen stains. Fuck not knowing after all this time. Fuck me for loving him so deeply and wanting to get Chinese. Fuck the dents in the car. Fuck the rasp leaving his throat when he slammed the door. Fuck me.


I still love you.