It's true that I can just about remember some details of your eyes, their depth and color: that blue damson darkness, sinking oceans down but I am high and dry and will not drown in them.

And even though your thighs apart and lips, half-parted, were at the very heart of all my entrances, now I have found that there are other, better, doors around.

Know this: I do not miss you in the morning,
the way that you awoke, a cat uncurling
with that never-ending lengthening stretch;
the velvet flicker of your tongue's first touch.

Know also, your infectious smile no longer
threatens me with any kind of danger
and to prove my full immunity, I bear
a livid, valid vaccination scar.

So, understand at last, there is no we;
there's only me, and you are history:
a distant, done-with, ditched, and long-lost cause.


I'm leaving you this message only because
there's a fault, a small-hours echo on my line,
a sleepless ghost, scratching in my machine;
and it's this strange persistence in the system
that makes me want to ask you one last question.

Why? So long after we've stopped talking,
why do you keep on calling?

Beeeeeep

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