Constellations of pale paned light

lapse across shadowed walls

as the din of street stragglers

dissipates in the slums,

appetites for fucking or for food

finally mollified.

Alone

in my barren bed ears ringing

knuckles bruised and bleeding

when stubborn brick blunted sad rage,

mouth an ashtray, heart smoldering—

I wonder if you’re with him.

I hate that I feel this way,

that you stole me from myself

the night you first pulled me

into that dark corner.

And your room, the lights on,

and your head on my shoulder

as we talk about art

and part of me stirs again

but I don’t dare move

and break the spell.

I want to want

to be with someone else

but don’t.

Dawn trickles in bringing

the faint bustle of productive people

as sleep washes over me.

I love

that I feel at all.