I write with my body  

I write with my hands

my heart's no more  

than a hundred crumpled pages

 

every desire            

every demand

follows the line       

my pencil traces

 

panties where you left them 

socks miles apart

I'm living on the floor

where my inspiration's gone

 

I'm bad a writer 

with no imagination

I need to see you 

to know what happens

 

you chase a dream

through a sleepless night

pain compounds 

with additional miles

 

cake crumbs in glasses

glasses in the yard

letters in the shredder

ghosts in the house

 

I don't know what to do

so I do what I know

I put things away

think of you some more

 

I crossed a line 

that I want to rub out

a smudge between 

curiosity and love

 

through a carwash

with someone's best friend

you push the narrative 

with your bare hands