Its funny
the routines you slip
into,
like a fat ass
coming home
to the very special
groove, indent or
large impression
on the couch
I know
My neck
is tired of turning
to see if you've
written
My lips are weary
from smiling for
you
My eyes are tearing
from trying to hold
your gaze
My fingers ache
in this empty space
next to me
It'll be jarring
for you
as I take another way
Flick this habit
the same way I enjoy
catapulting summer bugs
off of a screen door
I feel
My fingers warm
and laced
cradle my neck
My gaze
shifts ahead and
my feet fall forward
as these lips dance
along in song.
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