At midnights, I’m drunk-staring,
caterwauling captions to my nightmares
and keeping ghosts from trampling down
my front door.
I’ve got that bad disease called heartache and
there’s no cure for the self-inflicted catastrophe.
And a wreck.
Still got your number
tattooed to my eyelids so when
I close my eyes I can blink-dial your smile.
It’s better than scraping razorblades
across the photographs of us.
I’m dreaming of you
You’re not dreaming of me
[because you left me to empty bottles and worn-out recordings.]
I still remember your name.