I was thinking about everything
and nothing
that was left of you and I,
and I wrote it all and
none down with a blue pen,
bluer than the lies of my veins.
It is and was
a June day in April,
another orange one,
and the sweat is raining from
my infinite sky.
I gave you an ice cream
every day
for fifty cents of
my rhetoric.
You stopped and
I would not;
I stopped and you
would not.
I was wrong,
but I won't confess it,
I'll just please you
nice
and
slow.
A white truck
came
I'm pretty sure
it did.
It was a mistake
to carry on
so long,
but I know
it was only me counting.
