UNTITLED TYPEWRITER POEM NO. FIFTEEN

15

I only think about you
when I think about how long it’s been
since I last thought about you,
and I say to myself,
“Don’t.”

I haven’t seen your honest face
since you left me
alone on your bed,
but I saw two big glass eyes
in my head just now,
and I said to myself,
“What are you doing?”

I am made to remember you when
the songs are quiet
moths fall on the porch
my hair’s too greasy
garlic has no air
my hunger is gone—
but using my given senses
just means I’m alive,
so I can’t tell myself to
stop.

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