Sixty-eight: Smitten

Come here kitty, kitty.
And I do,
I come
over to you
but you’re already asleep.

get up and go
into the living room
that I don’t live in
and I smoke,
staring at the limp curls of streamers
from last year’s party.

It is too silent.

I hear the morning breaking through
though the night is still nestled
in the crack beneath the nails
of my stiff fingers.

I sit at the desk,
unwilling to go back to the unwilling,
but still coming to you
little by little
like smoke
I linger through the hallways
and by the time I get to you
there’s nothing left;
I’m burnt out.

Smitten does not mean stuck.

But I wonder if this is true.
If it isn’t,
then I lied,
And I don’t want to be a liar.

But if I said I wasn’t smitten,
I would still be a liar.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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