Look by now
I have spent all my money,
on sending angry voice recordings
Of “Letters to Milena”
to someone now dead.

And have crumbled to past traumas so many times now that there are not any more places left
in my body to injure.
everyone I know by now has now grown tired of me stuffing my mouth with Aprils’ reeking of
insomnia and self-pity.

Instead, when you complain about why I do not produce pretty poems about violinists who wear
orange too much and cover Iron & Wine and are sentimental.

I cannot explain, to you how I’m on borrowed ink and have grown too fixated on writing my
fatalities on upper thighs of people who don’t text me back and with drunk Irish poets with
answering machines that play an apology for not being there and congratulates you on how it
still have not killed yourself.

Now, listen, I am running out of words, and these clumsy recollections of how I offered myself to
scraped knees on long sofas and imploding over other people’s wounds are returning to me.
look we’re all inconsolable and I have wasted far too many hours trying to shrug of my
loneliness and on Gregory Isakov.

And if I could someday I’ll write about false optimism and about an alternate reality where you
have knots in your play the Violin and read Joyce to me. But for now, I will settle for your
absence and some more Gregory