Sixty-nine.

And I said, "You shouldn't write fiction.
I don't feel anything." It isn't always about lovers,
it isn't always speaking to someone inside the room.
So, how well do you think you know me?
I say this to wallpaper. Dusty blue damask.

He gives you a book of poems
that he has written within the last six months.
You read them late in the afternoon. They might
as well be titled, "You Are Not The One,"
or "I Remember Everyone But You Even Though
You're The Only Set Of Hands Still Here."
Well, fuck. What are you supposed to do
with that?

I work so goddamn hard to build a life away
from you. You don't want this but someday you'll be dead
and I'm going to need something to fill the space.
Besides, I sleep in your bed, give you home,
kiss your forehead when you're sad. You don't love me,
so what more do you want?

Again, to the wallpaper.

It's like listening to a song
with the most beautiful chord progression
that's ever dug its way into your eardrums, but
the only lyrics are, "Wake up!" over and over.

Sometimes I don't know where I am.