160. Tuesday.

I come home, cook some eggplant
on the stove, and cry,
and cry, and cry. There is a lump of saliva
or tears in my throat and I cannot remember
the last time I've done this.
I cannot remember if I am human
and if this is for you and the smoke
alarm sounds and it's over.

We do not even speak anymore
in my sleep. By the time it is light enough
to see the blossoming of my wallpaper
I only recall blue eyes and hands
everywhere. I write these poems
because I have no place else to go.