Unappreciated
perhaps there was some style in the way you leftposed like James Dean, leaning on the door frameme etching your name on my tongue like some
war-worn soldier repeating the name of his home when it's been
devastated.
nothing is the same when one piece of flesh is somewhere else--
unappreciated
skin inching toward the door to smell the last breathof a flame that has been blown out by the wind
of your last words.
I never liked the smell of cigarettes on Sundays,
but like a religious ritual it became
you and I in the bedroom at dawnI thought it was the sun.I woke to see the burning end of your cigarette and at first,
my eyes leave scars on my skin, as they wonder where you've been
and when I will feed them againwith a site so satisfying.
I used to be this way--
but now it is all that I can think about, my focus is solitarywithout--
and devoid of the small thingsthe telephone rings and I need a someone, somewhere, some way
to tell me about your day,did you cut your hair?
I used to play piano, but my fingers are rusty when
inspiration is not there.I use the backdoor to avoid your ghost
standing in the doorway in jeans and black leatherI think this is withdrawl, I can stall for so long, then I'm gone
I've never been addicted like this, barely knowing you,I think, is what I miss
the excitement in anticipation has dissipated...
feeling unappreciated.and I am left here
