TRACES OF YOU

traces of you remain in this scantily-clad burnt-
down apartment
unfinished glasses of water (melted ice) frazzled bed
sheets hanging on for dear life
my hands smell like your perfume
i don’t think you wear perfume
your harsh red lipstick stains my white cigarette
your words click through my head and
they click through my
head and
they click
your ghost arm keeps me warm at night
momentarily
and then
i wish you were here god
damn do i wish you were
here
queen-sized beds are substantial enough irrefutable
evidence that god does not want us to be alone –
shut up
and you said you didn’t want to be
white trash and leave your bra
here
(will i turn every woman into a poem?)
(i start to wonder with that – am i an
assembly line chauvanistic asshole but
then i remember how these poems write
themselves)
“slow down” she said, and my tin man
mechanical heart died trying to alter the
natural pace of the universe
i didn’t make you breakfast – bought a
bagel – orange julius – at two p.m. in the
morning and
oh god
do i want a million restless nights for you
for you
and i am putting on my shirts
backwards
and i am so terrified of
hurting you
and having to watch you
cry
and this is what we do
and these traces of you are everywhere
i find your bread crumbs leading me in circles
i am saying
yes
to our arrhythmic kisses, my
fault
and you
you are
incredibly explosively indefinite car crash
heroin supernova fleeting angel that i caught
in my net
animalistic instinct tells me to push
through
because i
am in love, but thus far,
only with the
traces
of
you.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

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