you're been drawing houses on your mattress and your 
sheets with the hope it won't be long until it's all the 
metaphor we need. and hung about your parents' dresser 
was a portrait of the sea and all the months you second-
guessed their love and looked for it in me. lying in the 
road with everyone you know wrapped around your wrists, 
filling in the holes. the drugs are homeless ghosts 
looking for someone to haunt, to be their host puppet 
stage to act on. you say, "all i want is some concern or 
someone to care for me." you raise your cup, say, "here's 
to all the months you never noticed anything." a 
blindfold, a hundred knotted ropes, your hands are 
forming fists but there's nothing there to hold. filling 
up bottles with dirty roof-touched rain and lining them 
against the porch's edge and whispering as you say, "if 
winter comes before i find someone to cover up this 
stain, i'll lie down and cover it myself but never get up 
again." now that you're a ghost, you're leaving little 
notes taped up to the bricks, these sad and somber poems. 
with ribbons of the palest yellow guaze i'll decorate 
your dreams. and tie a knot or make a bow across any 
broken seams.