spraypaint

The love notes are garbage

but I keep them anyway

sweaty words in a box

close to completely obsolete

save for their sweet sick daydream smell

if only

they would let me have some peace.

The telephone won’t ring anymore

because it can’t. And

all the kids won’t get married

because they don’t.

Good for them.

The rot of love is thick

and mostly just makes you gag.

I cry sometimes when I fly to New York

because

all of the lessons I’ve learned seem to still

live there.

If I visit them,

will they remember me?