Tuesday, September 20, 2016

February, 2015

I’ve looked for the prompt, I’ve waited with the best of them, for the waiter. For the menu. For the last time at the very least.

I don’t have your brow. I don’t even have that much sweat. I don’t bray. And I had very little to say in January. For the last time.

I’ve rubbed until fleshy flexes and tenses and changes against my own touching. At the very least.

I wait for my ankles not to be cold, but to still be uncovered. This is not a revelation. It’s not even pretty.