These tobacco kisses I leave. A trail. Staining everything. These sheets. Every memory we ever wanted to make. In our minds. Sometimes, I wish there were a tape recorder hooked up to my brain. Drink my dinner. And wish I knew how to swallow enough to answer the ringing phone. These glasses of red against a blank useless head. I want your hands. Everywhere. These lips, useless. One dumb voice on deaf ears. The weight of a thousand days. Unchained. Words strained through a delicate web of vision if only we could see. What it might be that you mean to me. Loosed. I want it all. Fuck. Angels and silences and the stupid places in between. How to fill up the empty space asking for words. For signs I don't understand how to make. I've forgotten the language both of us used to speak.