the morning routine

when I w w a a k k e e up

I lie in my bed

and lie

to myself that I don't need to

get up

the warm sheets that I cling to

never judge me for having a bad month

"just stay a while longer"

-they say

just like the body that's never

next

to me

I roll and turn, trying to find the elusive vein of sleep that I lost when I woke, and eventually I give up

I wander around the empty

s p a c e s

in my thought

filling each one with humming nothing

and then I get up

I look over my shoulder at the

chance that someone might see my lonely shame

and draw a cigarette out of my dwindling pack

I stole it from my parents

not the pack, but the indication that might let

me buy one

I move

down

towards

the

back

porch

and open

locks that

keep me in

I think about what I'm doing

and light up among trees and

dirt and leaves and the remains of my feigned apathy

and I think about you

we sat once, outside the dance hall

and the talking heads around us jabbered like a quivering blob

they said hurtful things but

we couldn't be touched

because we thought we had each other

this is usually when I cough,

and choke on your memory

and I couldn't describe it, I just

don't remember the words

but

when I look people in the eye

and they steal my energy

through opened valves of the iris

and black nothing in between

I can see you

maybe

and when I looked in yours

you just gave it back to me

with more than I needed

so I developed a taste for it

and that addiction causes

these horrible withdrawals

that I satiate with more smoke