Darling, darling blue.
My poking fingers, ragged nails popping
cheap plastic bags.
Holding and hiding my pale comparisons,
my grey companions on the way.
Riding and picking at ads
for a whole new you.
The green lights flutter
against the casing.
Flourescents purr, and I drop those pictures.
Ones that I made with my eyes shut,
yet they still look like you.
They ALWAYS look like you.
Why is it your face,
in white and black as I put you back,
that I see instead of mine
in the mirror
when I'm not looking.
I am not always talking to you.
You're not here.
The corner of my picture stained and peeling,
kicked by a gutterman.
I close my eyes against his sores
and try to ignore
as the resident nut stutters his apologies
to the grunt who has been absent
since his brains stained the wall
when someone gave a villager a gun
in a basket of rice.
