i'm back from outer space

this friday & or & this saturday
i did not study for poli sci. did not read for british lit.
bacardi. smirnoff. southern comfort. and clubs and hugs and cheap mouths to mouths.
i don't want to hurt you. i hope your blind.

there is no satisfactory chaser on a sunday night when i'm here reading foriegn books and you're not.
close my eyes, hold my chest.
where do you go at night now. i swear i can hear your feet breaking the tiles on the floor.
the crashes keep me up and inside.
these creases you left in the palms of my hands and the crevice of my eyes
& the forever altered state of my space
when did you get so. invisible, out of reach. scentless.
but still, it's like you never fucking left.
i thought i felt it. this wait. wait!

the psalm of erasing and extracting
the you from these sheets and the
scent of a time spent wrecking time
and the touch of your hand on my
desk and this disc that you left
that i hear without playing
it is as though, though;
you will not leave. not with bleach alternative
or hard love.

wait? stay? wait.
insufferable silence, screaming space.
this towel, and the scapes that you make on my life
and our sink & the half empty bottle of water
i have an address to make.