I am sorry I cannot write about you as often as I think of you-
which is constantly.
When it’s quiet enough to think deeply
I wipe my tears and do the dishes.
When I write you down with ink on paper-
it’s just you and me in here, kid;
but you are not.
I gave us up; and for what? A good tragedy? Some material?
Self infliction? A high? Some drugs?
I don’t even care about that shit anymore-
just You. And the dishes getting done.