193.

This time they ask me
what I am going to do
with my lungs. I'm tired
and I spend too much time writing
about what I do or do not
deserve. Here:

1.) You are in a suit
and I barely recognize you.
2.) You are ripples and waves,
more than I dare try to count.
3.) And, like most nights, I try my best
to go home alone.

Other men sing to me.
I would much rather be on my floor
listening to you read the newspaper.

So I'm trying to attach
a meaning to this. I'd like to find out
if you are the electricity
or the cathedral. You see,
I could run my vulnerability
through my fingers for days.
Is it shameful
that I wish to know your paper bones?

Tell me about the color you turn
when you consider joy.
I woke up missing you again.
You are not what I want
to think about in the moments
between everything else.