In an airport with stale air,
I do not know how to write you.
Last night
I was in one of the few east coast cities
where I do not know a soul.
I ordered food that made me sick
and did not sleep enough.
Still, I am more at home
in the cabin of a plane, in living
out of a backpack on a hotel room floor.
Sometimes I try to throw myself back
into New England. But you're there
and that's no good either.
This is what happens when
there's a flaw in the system,
metal scraping against metal, sparks flying
into all the wrong corners.
I would like to not have to beg you.
I want the things
I cannot seem to wrap words around.
You are at a Christmas party.
You are drunk at a Christmas party.
I am ten states away
dreaming about being with you,
dreaming about not being with you.
Call me in the middle of the night.
Please,
confess anything.
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