the rain blanketed out the sun this morning,
and the stench of fresh brewed coffee
forced my stomach to churn and curdle.
i let my warm tea escape down the hollow drain,
and left myself without a warmth
for my fingers to wrap around.
i read all of your poems today.
and now i secretly hope that you'll call me
and read them all out loud to me;
but i know you don't know my number,
and i know you don't like phones
at least as much as i don't.
i can't cry at work, but i want to.
i want to stop reading, but i can't.
and i suddenly realize
that all the light in here isn't real.
and i'd forgotten
what it felt like to be hungry.
you force upon me some semblance
of a poetess--something worthy--
when, in truth, i am not really writing poetry anymore.
it's regurgitate fantasy ground to a pulpit
by my girlish will to keep secrets.
i encourage myself to squirm loose
from the embrace of a poet,
but my inner eye sees only
the red salamander.
it's still raining as i rub my temples
with two fingers of each hand
to focus my eyes on my hair,
my visual frame to the world.
i blur the picture for a briefest moment
before the phone rings
and it's not you.