I

I want to take pictures of you
so that people will understand
how I could spend a life
arguing
with you
happier than a life spent
smiling
at anyone else.
You're everything wrong with me
everything right about me,
the embodiment of that secret desired life
glimpsed through angsty music,
foggy blueness a theme shading
small apartment overlooking
city lights, city cars on city streets,
and I always wonder why the moon is so much larger
from city rooftops.
Small apartment introspect --
hazy blueness softens
naked angels' pale moonlit
(streetlit?)
skin
curled together, sleepy breath ruffling
silky hair,
lips pressed safely to fragile shoulders.
Ahh, to love you in that world
would be a poem.



II

Bedside table
draped in blue sarong,
covered by notebook,
covered by pen,
covered by overflowing ashtray
because he wants to
and
she gets bored.
Musician dominated --
guitars lie on stands,
against postered walls;
cds in stacks or strewn
wherever stacks are tripped over.
Writer dominated --
Anne Rice and T. S. Eliot lie
face down on tables, couch arms;
inked up papers used to be piled,
were shuffled, fall disorderly to a floor
already strewn with jeans and camo shorts,
brown Chucks and the hat
he hides his hair in.
Held together by a too small bed,
they swore to destroy time.