Spring: Writing
I remember the poems
you used to write, when
no one was looking.
And when the stars
were the dots on your eyes,
they filled the room with
Hollywood laser light shows.
The kind that send the ill
into foaming mouth fits,
and young children into
comas that last
until their friends,
have grown old
and died, their parents
just skeletons.
So when you asked me
to kiss you on the couch,
and the television
went to commercial:
I forgot about the poems
and the stars and the sick,
because you had me
by the thick
of my neck, pulling me
into your mouth-
Harder and harder,
until the lungs in my chest
went flat, like the piece
of paper I would eventually
end up on.
I remember when
you used to write.
And I will always,
remember when you stopped.
