Literature
comatose.
i never told you:
i hated the way you smelled
like winter, like
fog or listerine or
something long forgotten.
i guess i miss you the way
i miss brooklyn,
all thirsty for a song
i've never heard, pining for
a place i've never been.
homesick.
--
i never told you:
i keep your old promises all tucked up inside,
like bruises sleeping fallow
along my hipbones.
i promise i'll love you always, i promise
i'll fix the coffee machine tomorrow,
and if you let me,
i'll fix you –
well, you never were a fixer.
what you are is tired, and you never understood
why this fucked-up little town
unmade its bed, swallowed an
