Stagnation,

her life is stale.

Foul from not moving.  

She’s killed her desire,

named it an irrational appetite.

Marked by dull uniformity

her days are full of

wearisome constancy.

She exists in a world

she us not aware of.

Her volatile spirit

is covered with a thick

blanket of ordinary

and she no longer strives

to kick free of the covers.

She’s reached the end of

the road without realizing.

Or without caring.

And it only takes

one more step.

Forward or back.

sometimes i write
for no purpose
but to write
and the night runs long
when i dont sleep

sometimes i write
claustrophobic
thoughts out of my head
so that i can give
calm a chance

sometimes i write
but sometimes
the writing writes me
or, the fingers
detach from

the restless brain.

sometimes i night-write
the dense dark
shaping letters
into words

hints of black night
on a page that is white

sometimes i write

Today i became aware
 of just how awful it is
 to shower alone after sex.
 The ticking of the clock
 pulled me out of bed,
 where our body heat and friction
 had warmed the sheets
 to the perfect nesting temperature.
 I stood naked, contently unclean
 in front of the mirror
 with nothing to do
 but wait for the water to warm.
 Then a thought of you back in bed,
 where the cat has taken my place
 laying in the curve between your
stomach and your knees;
 two balls of warmth
 breathing that slow, thick sleep breath.
 Slipping into the shower
 was the quickest, cruelest way
 for my body to forget
 how yours felt.