Writing every day I notice
I write the same thing. Driving
rain driving home in the middle
of the night. Almost morning.
I dream about you, what a shock.
Is it a dream or a memory, oh
the mystery. You
with your lips pressed to my temple
murmuring be safe, be safe.
I'm sober after bad sex
with someone nicer than you.
This is a bad metaphor about the complexity
of mourning that I realized
even as it happened.
This sex is bad.
I'm going to write about it later.
You told me I use dreams as a crutch
when I don't know how to write what's difficult.
This poem does not finish.
