it's the second left of your face
your uneasy way of being absent
like drawing a knife from mouth to sideache.
but only for me, darling-dear-sweetheart
leave me the free one and you always satiated by the one you hold hands with
and I pick up the scraps of us and mold them into
cut out paper flowers or memorized pictures
the lines in your frank tied up speeches
when I'd wake and feel your arms
is a
ghost
I wander in empty coke bottles and leave you messages
and leave you.
I am flawed if I'm not free.

I can't blame you for being cold
we.are.twotimers.
the both of us glazing over old facts
and pretending things that we don't ever come to face.
pouring coffee
pouring old stories down the drain.
you don't meet me in the eyes
or where you flinch when I touch you.
It's not a negative side-effect it just fucking happens a lot of the time
when you got your Wednesday night
your wallet pulled out
your eyes shut
and your lies wrapped up neatly packaged
as a tendency to wear sunglasses and stop grinning sideways
during the passenger seat ride back upstate