zebrasindenver

White sheets,

Gauloises,

a white cigarette lighter,

my white shirt,

and still your shit green dress hangs upon the dresser,

 bleach.

I can barely hate you enough,

for the way you loved me so.

Nor love myself enough to hate you,

to forever let you go.

The birds,

the dog,

the cars on St Laurent,

the rattle of bike locks against fences,

the rattle of bike locks over potholes,

the voices in the street,

and the steps of joggers on pavement,

and then me, quiet in my room above,

 with the sound of my fingers upon my keyboard,

and the all sounds of spring below.