I’m sitting in a coffee shop by the highway ramp
There’s a chai latte spoon sawing at your arm
But it’s not sharp enough
I'm trying to draw blood
the way you did from the very first night
but I keep getting distracted by the sky
Now my arm is sore and I’m getting frustrated
Kicking the door when it won’t close properly
How do I blame the dented surface on the barista
who gave me a spoon when I needed a knife
I’m getting out of the tub and I go to dry off
and nothing is wet and it's just like lately
I've been wringing the towel when it’s dry
Looking in the mirror
examining the skin still giving off heat
Looking for the soft parts – possible entry points
The parts you didn’t find
The parts that are still only mine
On my knees worshipping
the places inside of me you haven’t touched
haven’t even come close to
I swallow a prayer of relief for the
decibels of laughter you haven’t heard
I ask the barista for the wifi password
before he can give it to me
the boy in the booth next to me walks by
slips a folded piece of paper on my table
it says push the door until it clicks
When I look up he’s gone
But there’s a car getting on the highway
and I could’ve sworn I just heard a faint click