poem: 1:42 a.m.

i make up all the wonderful

things he says to me

i think he fell into my mouth or maybe my

mind and he only came out

fictional. i think

staring at my black dorm window is

unproductive, as if all the

lovers are merely out there and

waiting like saints in the

smoke, while i curl my fingers into juvenile

pajama pants and i think of his fingers

on my neck and his very soft eyes asking

for my mental state like it is

valuable and not

a liability.

but there is everything between me and that

everything and nothing

i guess i will sit here forever because it is night outside anyway

because anyway.

even if they

did know i was here

why

would they come?