everything but . . .

there used to be a glass measuring cup

that could make me cry or laugh or

sigh pensive sighs while making still frames

in open doorways that I might have been proud

to have for the first time ever

but there is a lack of priority in desperation

even as the sun sets on blankets stacked

two inches high, I should have wanted a bed

a television set, something a little richer

than this picture perfect touch that you took

and placed so carelessly everywhere

and I was so happy to be touched by anyone

for a little while, while waiting on you to

come through, come back, come around

to fix the brakes, the tiny fractures of my esteem

to fix anything that you left broken and open

between the stasis of our hushed needs -

our mouths barely touched once when you just

wanted to know, to test the waters as if we

had been that sweet together ever

but on our best behavior, and our first encounter

I was on my knees, bruised eye, trying to please you

but in the dark you never noticed the sound of my heart

as it fell in sync with your breath

I mistook you for life so much that we created it accidentally

and decided we made it all for someone else

and you were almost the death of me

of dreams and hope – god how you could create hope

and sighs and anticipation but none of that is life

it’s perfectly well working brakes that still need fixing

a glass measuring cup that measures nothing