i'd rather have you,
every groggy morning,
kiss my stomach
through (your) thin gray t-shirt i threw on
than hear the sound
"iloveyou."
go on and say i'm crazy.
still.
*****
when times have
tiptoed off
what do we have
but contour memories
toast crumb words
crudely reassembled.
all i gathered were sensations.
and will the skin forget?
