I'm writing to tell
you that your
friday nights
suck and your
saturday evenings
leave me feeling
more lonely than
a monday morning.
At least I know
what most people
go through on
those days.
Howcome you don't
live with me
anymore? The
best excuse I may
have thought yet
is to blame those
procedures you dwell
on to your
selfishness. I'm
hoping you're finding
some new establishment
comfortable? Why
were you apartment
walls never decorated
before? I saw some
new spices and herbs
in your cupboard.
Who's the chef?
Truth is, I don't
believe your
tattle tales anymore.
Someone told me
something that kept
me awake for hours
the other night and
still you complain
that your bed is
too big. I've
wondered if you've
wondered about
my plans this
coming summer.
Here's a person
to sit on those
kinds of chairs
you may or
may not have
wedged through that
narrow staircase.
Here's a cheap drink
to indulge in while
I sit here in this
cathedral of some
sort throwing ten
dollar bills at the
bartender. Here's a
kiss for you and
that horny drug dealer.
Indulging is waiting.
Though I don't much
appreciate you patience
anymore.
1/13/11
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