133.

I did not come home last night.
I drank gin and tonics that did not taste
like you. I went to bed dizzy,
did not recognize the ceiling, the shape
of the bathroom light switch.
I am thinking about getting another tattoo.
Perhaps in a year, most of my visible skin
will look foreign to you.
This thought should not be appealing.
Things keep faltering.
I am trying not to be a machine.
The trees in my part of town
look as though they've been dipped in cotton.
I can not even remember whether it's oak or maple
outside of your bedroom window.