the pictures you leave me with,
when you leave late at night--
the streetlights not quite illuminating
the glow i've sent you away with--
the images i go to bed with,
all love and sex and adoration,
are filled with clasping hands and
catching skin and cradled hearts.
but the pictures, see, are not quite enough
to keep me pacified when you leave me--
late at night, quiet and wide open
and waiting for the world--
not quite enough to keep me from strangling
on muted distrust and dislike.
i should play them back,
should keep them neatly ordered and
stacked from left to right to flip through
at my leisure, at my pleasure--
when the body leaves its warm impression,
the absence is even more palpable.