we’re walking down a dark street
at 4 o’clock on this
freezing morning
we’re holding hands
inside your pocket
and i’m asking myself
why i bother
you always leave me
with a blank expression
on my face & a jar of coins next to my bed.
when i stand close enough
to you
i question whether i believe in poetry at all
whether i believe in anything
broken beneath this pen.
I don’t remember any of this… was I drunk.
The coins in the jar were for the obscence phone calls I made from your place by the way.