This is what I do every Saturday morning.
I come here,
sit down at this table,
waiting for the muse,
a divine little nudge.
My pen starts to move,
writing poems about you again.
Everything begins there and
everything ends there as well.
I want to die and go to heaven
so I can see you again.
Sometimes that’s the only thing
that keeps me going.
You are a supernova.
Work, sleep,
work, sleep,
work, sleep,
work, sleep.
Last night I dreamed riots and secrets,
woke up tired,
got in my car and came here.
Meanwhile,
you live on the other side of the ocean.
You kiss your children.
You fuck your husband.
You haven’t thought about me
in years.
-Copyright Timothy Downs
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