I don't feel happy when you smile, alright. Feeling down and beneath dirt.

hey let me paint your nails.
alright i said. we sat in a room
with dust, chairs and not much else.
you hummed a song and i listened
to your voice get softer as you got tired.
i listened to cars outside rumble
over manhole covers.

i watched the lump in your throat
move like a sick pet. it moved
slow and helplessly over
the sounds you made
it whipered and had
a dry nose. i felt finger nail polish
run off my cutical.
it dried into a red rock.

on the last two fingers you grabbed
a cigarette off the end table
sucked it down with puffed cheeks
and blew smoke so the dust wouldn't be bored.
you kept talking to me and
the dust talked with the smoke.

your voice almost disappeared.
it was the hum of a fan or
something inconsequential.
you rubbed my forearm
and smiled
i saw this out of the corner of my eye
and looked at the smoke and dust
still talking. they were so close
it made the room stretch out
into the street.
walkers came to the door and listened
they agreed or disagreed
who knows. i just wanted your smile
to go away and the walkers' smiles
to stay on their faces
until their cheek muscles ached
just because they were a part of
a moment i never wanted.

**

I still have a few of my chapbooks left. I read through it twice today when it slowed down at work and the work made me disappointed. There were changes I wanted to make to every single poem, two of them I wish never existed. If I ever write a book I'm afraid this feel will happen everyday until none of the things I write even exist.

This makes me want to write a book because this blog would eventually not exist. Crazy.