This is a dream about Harlem
This is me listening to Miles Davis on a cracked laptop
Breathing as still as a glass of water
Plastic aqua cup I took from your roommate
Three years ago
In the house that I read in, cooked in
The bedroom where I fell asleep during Lolita
Because there are nights that I can't handle
The feel of black and white
When I'm tired, I tend to see things:
My intentions, my trespasses against my throat
I bury my face in the grave
Of my hands, flashbacks of what I've forced down
Of what I've forced up
Of what I've forced with you
Let's talk about my hips, that you praise
Let's talk about your shoulders, ever perennial
Even when you didn't have to
Nine seasons to a sitcom
The soundtrack to our trembling
A fistful of sanity in my left hand
Gratitude in the other
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