One-hundred and Eighteen: Question Marks

I’m tracing your picture with my fingers,
but what I feel isn’t what I see, and I think,
Is this who you really are
or what I wish you were?

Your words are floating out, empty
as bubbles, and it makes my thoughts
float like fog; I know that this isn’t
quite what I want, but I don’t know
which letters to rearrange, which
screw to change. I don’t know
how to get what I want without
asking for it. And I guess I am
asking for it when I throw tantrums
like plates, but I’m tired; I’m tired
in thirty-three different ways but
I don’t know how to tell
you that I want you
to give me the green light
to close my eyes
without using words,
so instead I sit, simmering,
choking on question marks.


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

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