poem my friend wrote a while ago but is on my mind now.

pieces of your cracked face lie on the floor
of a men's restroom in the middle of nowhere

or just outside her door where he politely dusted
off your shards before he walked in

(and commenced to live without you).

eyes shocked into tear less ness
thinking how cruel that he does not care.
that you feel as dry as erosion
the essential of you sliding away under your skin.

but no matter-- this is not his sin:
lovers before he happened became faceless
you clung to his words but did not pause to hear their de/meaning
(perhaps intoxicated by your own moaning).

and now he has left this void that was not his to fill
and you still feel
his kisses on your hips.

his arrogant self
invades your air
and your days
and your dreams--

dreams are nothing but kissed hips.

not worth waking to
words that do not articulate,
overcrowding your mouth with bitter taste.