It bothers me that I know your number by heart, and yet I haven't called and neither have you, and I haven't written and neither have you, and I plan ways to leave your books at your front door without a message, in a plastic bag so they don't feel too lost, beside the door because in front would seem like a happy delivery.
And I wonder whether you are leaving me like I left him, quietly and brutally, to prepare yourself for the distances, the silences and the love affairs. How else does one operate on the heart, but with instruments that slice.
It bothers me that I would know where to find you tonight
With foam upon your cupid's bow in the dim and dusty light.
Filling the lack in your gut, filling up the lack,
Since you don't know I'm back in town, you don't know I'm back.
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