i've never gone to confession.
but, we could talk just as openly
about what i have done, or thought
or didn't do.
the water is hot and you're hanging there
and even though i'm naked
and vulnerable you're not looking.
you don't have eyes,
just rings and plastic and that's best.
tonight is about blankets,
the pile of them beside me.
as warm as they seem
somehow my toes are still cold
and rolling around in my own clothes doesn't even help
this time of year.
i know you're not listening.
if i wanted to feel heard
i'd go to the mirror
she's wide-eyed and sympathetic
and knows that i'm a serial sobber
and cries with me
even when i'm at my ugliest.
so i could stare blankly into the dark
or i could stare at the blankets
or keep talking to you.
lately i'm writing out checks
instead of love letters.
i can write checks instead of poetry-
for a while.
and try to not check out
i'll try to write prose instead.
like i used to.
i think there are some love letters
tucked into the back pages of a novel.
we'll dig them out once the smoke clears.
thank you for the talk.
sorry to leave you hanging.