Friday, September 12, 2003

she's not here

and as i turn to tell you...
no one answers
the doorbell never rings
your lingerie refuses to hang
over the shower
and i see shadows
of your coffeeshop logic,
of you scribbling
we are split like
rotten fruit.
the basket's empty,
we spread
over the continent
butter, cream,
the game is over,
the players are gone.

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