milquetoast

that's me
 in the corner, by the stairs

counting how many moons are in
over and over
over and over till i can be drunk enough
to go and talk a little with you

maybe say "bruise me sweet, but i must say you're the most beautiful girl i've ever seen" (well, in the last hour and five.)
 and then she is a kitten or a knife and i hold her
 clever, almost with the same care her mother
 wore her year after

by the cradle with the interlocking fingers and singing a song about blackbirds.

"hey, i'm whatever, whatever whatever and whatnot, who do you know here?"

i'm like: "david sorrows", with my mouth quirked and my eyes drift by the curtains with their alabaster skin, and slight flutter, "over there by the curtains with the dwarf".

there was no dwarf, i didn't know that guy either.

somewhere the music lurched into 80's suicide.

she "loved this song"

and i left without fucking her.

my phone was black screen and the street lamps spun my reflection. the night veered into masturbation.