This morning was no different
- salted wind traveled through twisted metal
moistened breath sliced by steely scythes.
Saline dew sticking, staying behind,
softening the iron’s hardness with reddish-brown blisters.

The man walked through the mess in the junkyard
- which every day reminded him of his own life,
and the corrosion of time and carelessness.

Remember the times we talked past midnight? Now it's just me and the black dog. You're in exile. I live in a wind tunnel that bends light and time. And the black dog sits in the corner and snarls.

Let it be about me. All about me.
Excuse me if I don’t want to feel the flick-flack-flop of a rolodex weighted by seemingly anonymous identities. Or the click of a turnstile feeding in warm body, after warm body in an automation just to get them.
In. Round. Out.
You see. I need it to be about me.
Visibility.
That feeling that I've been seen. Heard. Digested.
Rather than passed through.

days I have tried to stop loving you:
13
.
it appears my mind
is a haze
only made
form
from
the memory
of you
.
soft belly
hard back
tender thigh
soundless sigh
your breath breaking
here
on the arc of my neck
.
tomorrow is monday
.