she’s writing in a language I can’t read
and I don’t have the words anyway
the way’s she bent, she’s smart
I need to sit up straighter

get glasses
gray, color, doesn’t matter—we’re close tonight
we’re always speaking separate languages
floating high in low-ceilinged rooms
we meet at the top
but she’s already escaped
through the window

a lonely night of fashion-gazing,
lip-reading, smoking in bed,
I wake to the smell of carpet burning

I leave everything but the television
and search the alley for an outlet
I catch the news just in time to see she’s discovered
how to make
love from snowglobes

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