i've been here for eight days
talking about you, remembering.
i've answered yes to those questions; they ask:
"did you sleep with him?"

over a week i've been here, without you.
and it has been normal,
like every other seven day span
that passed without hearing from you.

"do you resemble a bucket at the bottom of a deep hole?"
"are you well?"
"it's been ages, what are you doing tonight?"
"out of town"

yes, tonight taht is true
you will not be here
regardless of how many times i glance towards the door

i love you
i miss you

but none of that will put you outside this door
smoking your last cigarette
waiting to tell me i don't know tricks

tonight- after eight days and seven nights
i miss you
your three piece suit and knapsack
the voice and your stupid crooked grin,

i hate you for both,
only because i can't stop the adoration.

it keeps me yours.

mj