I had been

talking about wanting

a typewriter for a few months, probably.

she found one

bought it

paid to have it fixed

and gave it to me for Christmas.

at the time

it was one of

the best gifts I had ever gotten.

just the thing a kid

pretending to be a writer could have hoped for.

I may have used it twice.

now

it sits on the floor

of my bedroom

next to

a bag full of empty

beerbottles

clothes

the garbage can

and lamp.

it's broken

collecting dust

a lot like our relationship.

# "A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world."-j.k.

that last night, I

realized

nothing changed before I did.

I walked her to her car and watched as she drove off,

brake lights illuminating the distance

between my house

and 5th st.

she signaled, made the same left turn she had thousands of times before, and was gone.

and I haven't seen her since.

twin holes
on my bed
from a cigarette that

missed the ashtray

remind me
of childhood fears that my

house would catch
fire;

my mothers' pillows
looked the same.

tonight,
the first thunderstorm
I can remember for
awhile.
lightning flashed
behind me like the
bulbs of cameras
taking the pictures
we never
took.

I can barely read my writing.

walk by
homeless faces
who stop long
enough to become
homeless names
and they just ask for cigarettes
or a light or some
change
that we could both
use for a bus
and maybe they get on
or maybe they don't

in the quiet
of the kitchen,
it's just the clock and I.
he mocks me with
his tick and his tock
and his twitching hands.

we are both afraid of time.

4:11

I smoke and listen
to her in the shower.
the music, the fan,
the cars, the gray sky and snow falling.

Now, it is
4:18.

and the cats are
eating in the
kitchen.