4 am is a traffic jam.
My clock, out of pity, skips it
When I’m lucky.
Fingers trace a dent in my durafoam nest,
My closet is full of stiff flowers that still reek
a hint of Sensodyne.
My sheets smell like the song
You used to whistle while scrubbing dishes,
Perhaps the tune that stood with Audrey Hepburn
Outside Tiffany’s, but I could be wrong.
I’m never really wrong.
That car rattled around blind corners
And your fidgeting kept me awake
At the wheel, but I wasn’t driving.
You make noise on your airguitar
It sounds like nothing, so I miss it more than anything.
Can’t take the kid from the fight, take the fight from the kid,
Sit back, relax, sit back, relapse.
The cold dissection of memory drags towards 4:02, and
I’m breathing in milk; it’s supposed to dull the burn.
You hum to Ace while she drives in circles;
We will eventually forget to remember
but not without remembering to forget.
I love you. Fuck you. I’ll change.
Più è quello cambia, più è la stessa cosa.
Your dashboard bobblehead quivers in disapproval,
So I knock it off my nightstand, and pray for sleep, or 5.
